It was a cool night, probably somewhere around 50 degrees. My wife had to work late and it was my job to feed our kids, so I decided in haste that I would throw together a pizza. Now, I’ve never really cooked anything good in my life, so it was quite a shock when the pizza popped out that night looking like a work of art. The cheese had formed this perfect layer across the surface of the pie, glistening in the kitchen light, the crust had browned just up to, but not passing, the point of being burnt, and it gave off the kind of sweet scent that makes your mouth water so much that you actually notice. It was magnificent. I couldn’t help voicing my achievement aloud. “Kids,” I crowed. “It looks like your father just Out-Pizza’d the Hut!”
The moment after those words left my mouth, my dining room windows shattered and three men clad in pizza costumes slithered through. They shoved my kids off their seats at the dinner table and encircled me, rhythmically slapping their cloth pepperonis and chanting in unison, “So you think you Out-Pizza’d the Hut? No one Out-Pizzas the Hut.” Then all three men pulled out extra-large pizzas from the folds of their costumes and began forcing hot triangles of meat and cheese down my throat. Slice by slice, I devoured each pizza. So cheesy. So triangular.
When the men had no pizza left, I thought my torment had ended, but from the window appeared the silhouette of another pizza-man — only this was no costume. He had skin of melted cheese, eyes of black olives, and nipples of thickly-sliced pepperoni. The monster slowly made his way over to me and, in a low hiss, said “Good evening, you sweet fool. My name is Behlor the Baker.” The brute then looked at my skin and, without skipping a beat, said “You’re a bit undercooked, but don’t worry; I can fix that.” Then he rubbed his cheesy mitts all over me, coating my body in pounds and pounds of queso. He threw on some pepperoni, some ham, and then, oh God, lathered me in his special olive oil. I was then thrown in the oven, my own oven, at 350℉ for 15 minutes—I’m only around to talk about it because Pizza Hut cheese happens to be made of the same base parts as fire blankets.
Don’t be a fool like I was that night. No one Out-Pizzas the Hut. No one.
—K. King
