Fiction: “Duper Chomper” by Jordan Castro

Art by Tanzanian Wojak

The man cracked the eggs into a glass. One, then two, then three, until he’d cracked all six into the glass. He collected the empty egg shells and tossed them into the trash can. 

He stood at the counter, touched his lips to the glass. He tilted his head back. When the yolk hit the back of his throat, he jerked his head back away from the glass, like a bird, or a snake, quickly opening then closing his throat for the yolk. 

He wondered if that was how people fit big things down their throats, and imagined holding his throat open, if such a thing were possible. It was likely that the thing held the throat open, he considered. He didn’t know. He felt vaguely energized. He placed his mouth back onto the glass and continued, this time slonking three yolks back to back without moving his lips away from the glass.

During his last gulp, which was longer than expected due to excess albumen, he gagged, not expecting the extra white. His throat did not stay open to swallow the whole yolk, so he chewed and swished until it was all mixed in his mouth, then got it down.

His hands and part of his neck and face felt bumpy, briefly, and his eyes felt wet. He imagined himself, arms parted, light shining out of his mouth and eyes. He shook his head. 

He felt great.

He placed the large carton back into the refrigerator. It had held eighteen that morning, but now contained only two. A card with a link to a website he could visit to see the small farm where the eggs came from had fallen onto the floor. He bent, picked it up, then threw it in the trash can. Each carton contained one. He cared that it existed, but didn’t care enough to look. It was enough to know the chickens produced deep orange, vibrant yolks. 

He shook his head again and breathed, wondering at something which seemed to him miraculous. He felt brighter, virile, lucid, strong. The perfection of raw eggs.

One of his dogs, a shi tzu, jumped up to counter height twice. His other dog, a doberman, sat beside him looking up. 

Gooboy miso duper chomper, he said, patting the doberman’s head. He removed the carton from the fridge. The shi tzu sprung up again then sat. Yes, he said, picking up the dogs’ bowls, cracking an egg into each. He swirled the contents of the bowl so the yolk mixed with the food, pasting the brown chunks generously with the clear goo and deep orange. He placed the bowls on the ground and watched the dogs’ faces disappear.

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