Food Versus Evil: An Angry Burger's Quest

By Jesse Guillon

No one believed Burgerman when he said that ghosts were haunting his hometown. Even on a planet inhabited by living food products, his claim was just crazy enough to get him thrown into an asylum. But for all the good reasons for him to undergo psychological analysis (such as antisocial behaviour, chronic irritability and Compulsive Sarcasm Disorder), there's a much better argument for his release:

The ghosts are real.

And their plans spell disaster for the whole planet.

Upon escaping the hospital, Burgerman finds himself caught in a conflict between the ghosts, the clandestine Egg Intelligence Agency and a mystical entity calling himself "the Soda Guru" - with each party having their own plans for this troubled young hamburger. Burgerman's only weapon: a magic bracelet that can teleport its wearer out of danger. However, each warp throws him further away from home.

Can this edible adventurer find a way to regain his old life? Or is he doomed to live a haunted, angry, perilous, angry, angry existence?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jesse Guillon
• Release date: Oct 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311311412

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Four Padded Walls Make an Asylum

For the last time, Doc, I'm not crazy! I'm a perfectly sane, level-headed hamburger.

If padded walls could talk, they would have agreed with Burgerman. Unfortunately, any sign that the walls were talking would support the notion that he was, in clinical terms, bonkers. Rows of square cushioning stared him down from the walls, floor and ceiling. The amount of padding was overkill. Fluffy, pillowy overkill.

What, am I gonna flop into the wall and hurt myself? thought Burgerman, hearing the belts jangle as he tried prying his arm from his chest. Of course he would itch most at a time when he couldn't scratch.

As he attempted to rub his itchy face against his shoulder, the walls taunted him with their sterile spotlessness. Every particle of the room was white. Not cream or eggshell or beige or #FFFFF0. Not even ghost white.

Though, as Burgerman alone knew, ghosts were not white.

The psychologist sitting before him had yet to respond to Burgerman's claim of sanity [chapter 1, line 1], merely reaching into his lab coat (white) for a fresh pen. The idea of a pill wearing a lab coat may have seemed absurd to some; though pills were technically edible, and Dr. Pihl was indeed a person, he wasn't a 'food-person' like all the other hamburger-people and pineapple-people and popsicle-people inhabiting the planet. While he and Burgerman shared the limbs and facial features that distinguish people from non-sentient objects - like rocks and faceless toys and differently shaped rocks - these two people were more than a few food groups apart.

I said I'm not crazy. Are you even listening? Not a peep from Dr. Pihl as he adjusted his specs. Would the shrink remain nonreactive to anything short of Burgerman torching a building? More importantly, could Burgerman phrase that in a way that didn't sound psychotic? For crying out-

Now, now, let's keep our temper, said the doctor. Take a deep breath, as though inhaling life itself. Good, now feeeeeel that nasty psychosis leave your body as you exhale. Burgerman obeyed, albeit through clenched teeth. I'd like to talk about your family life.

My family? I'm not in a straitjacket because my parents wouldn't put my finger painting up on the fridge. His feet clenched, stretching the tops and soles of his shoes apart. Stop ignoring the elephant in the room.

The shrink lowered his glasses as though they obscured Burgerman's appearance. This elephant... Is it in the room with us now? Does it whisper orders to you?

Burgerman made a mental note to bury his face in his hands once they were free. Fine. You want proof that I'm hallucinating? I see someone in this room who went to college.

The eternally placid Dr. Pihl raised an eyebrow. Young man, I've undertaken every degree needed for this job from the University of Psyence, and I've passed every knowledge quiz.

"Exam."

Furthermore, my understanding of mental health has been made public in a number of bestselling books. Burgerman knew all too well about these self-help guides. The pill had brought them up seven times that morning. The covers of these books usually featured the doc making a what's-your-problem gesture in front of a non-threatening shade of green, owning a moustache that, in person, looked likely to peel off.

I'm not questioning your qualifications, said Burgerman. I know that only a professional would make finger quotes in the air when using a medical term. But can we just discuss-

I'm here to listen, said Dr. Pihl, his voice soothing like a caramel waterfall - a sight that wasn't uncommon on this food-themed planet.

Yes, but-

I'd like for us to do a listening exercise. He pulled a stack of index cards from his folder. Tell me the first thing that comes to mind when I show you these pictures.

Despite this task's futility, Burgerman knew that further arguing wouldn't help his cause. Humouring the shrinking pill would be faster, so he pretended to study the first inkblot-splattered card.

Looks like... a splotch of dark ink against a white card, he said.

Hmmm... The doc scribbled something on to his notepad and held up the next card.

It's a toddler 's artwork.

Good, good. The doc presented the next image.

A quack photocopying a real doctor's degree.

Interesting... And another image.

A fighter's jabs soaring over his opponent's head.

Ahhhh... And another.

A detective who thinks we're trapped in jail with him, but it's really him trapped in jail with us.

Very healthy. Dr. Pihl held up another card, and Burgerman wondered if this game would never end. However, the next card caught his attention. For the most part, the pattern looked like all the other ink blobs, but the longer he stared at those two empty ovals in the centre, the more they looked like-

Those eyes...

Burgerman's attention walked right out the door. Right out the day, in fact. Memories from two mornings ago formed a virtual world in his head - one that existed before he had been institutionalised. A world where he had felt safe venturing into the alleyway behind his wreck of a house.

Upon poking his head through the gap in the shoddy picket fence, he had noticed how abnormally bright the graffiti looked that morning. Usually the bubble writing on the walls didn't shimmer, or whisper sharply. And as those three blobs of red, green and blue paint turned to face him, he had sworn that the graffiti never used to have eyes.

He and the rainbow of ghosts had stood observing each other as his heartbeat quickened.

Then, the middle ghost had said Get him!

This memory stabbed Burgerman like a fork. Terror forced his legs to propel him to the back of the seat. That's what they looked like! he yelped, struggling to free his jacket-bound arms. The ghosts!

You're clearly on edge, said Pihl - his most astute analysis yet - as Burgerman's throat pulsated along to his speed metal heartbeat. "Perhaps a cocktail of drugs would soothe your nerves. Care for a Prozax on the Beach? Or maybe a Margaritanol?"

I don't need meds! said Burgerman, despising the man and fearing the room at that moment. "I need an expert on the paranormal, or some occult crystal freak, or, or, someone."

If we could think rationally for a moment-

"I am not insane, said Burgerman, pronouncing the words with his whole face. I've never hallucinated before, ever. You need to help me, or..."

No, he told himself. He can't help me. No one can. I'm the only help I can get.

I know how you must feel, said the doc, injecting every word with a dose of verbal tranquiliser. Alone. Misunderstood.

As if you could understand.

But trust me, things will get better. I've almost lost this job three times. But I fought on. Pihl's voice climbed in tone. I fought tooth, nail and clipboard to keep this position, regardless of what the Board of Medicine had to say about my understanding of 'psychology' and 'general logic'. And do you know why? The clock outside ticked on. "Because I care. I care about my job and about helping my customers."

"Patients!"

Exactly! Patience and determination will get you to wherever you want to be. There's no force stronger than the foodman spirit. Dr. Pihl leaned forward, both fists gripping the air before his chest. You can do anything, Burgerman. You can overcome your hallucinations, and we can help you.

Checking his watch, the doctor added Sorry, our session's over. I'm off to analyse a piece of buttered toast over in B-Ward. He believes that the fabric of reality will unravel if he sleeps face-up. He tucked his folder under one arm and stood. We've made great progress today. Try to get some rest.

Burgerman unclenched his muscles as jagged bursts of air returned to his lungs. After witnessing the doctor's tenacity, fresh hope bubbled in his beef patty stomach.

He's right. I can't just sit around feeling helpless. Burgerman stared through the barred cell window and down the hall, his mind made up.

It's time to break out of here.

Chapter 2 - One Grappled out of the Cuckoo's Nest

Afternoon came, and while the chill of winter did little to clear Burgerman's thoughts, he was relieved to be free of his straightjacket for the day. The courtyard buzzed with chatter from the bananas, nuts, fruit loops and other food products claiming residency in the institution; chatter that was either slurred, frantic, or otherwise incomprehensible. To Burgerman, sitting on that unvarnished park bench was like having front-row seating at a comedy festival, with insanity in lieu of hilarity. Any patient that wasn't mumbling some gibberish was either frolicking or twirling on the spot. Or in the case of one psychotic slice of garlic bread, trying to dislodge a drinking fountain.

Of course, any activity would prove more fruitful than Burgerman's conversation with the other man on the bench. This aging can of cola had a buzz-cut that screamed 'Explosive Military Action', and each silver scar on his metal canister body glistened with danger. Sadly, his shaky speech patterns turned every sentence into a chore as he recited tales from his service in the Cola Wars.

I still see them in my sleep. Raspberry cordial splashing the trees as bullets tear through Billy. Johnny's lemonade oozing out as the giant foot flattened him. God, he was barely an adult. The man tightened his blanket over his shoulders, teeth chattering. They say war is what turns 250ml cans into 500ml cans. If that's true, I'd rather have stayed a bubbly youth forever.

Sweet baby Beansus, end this story before I swallow my fist and punch my stomach to death, Burgerman thought. Go on, he said.

So many lives wasted, and for what? Just so our government could find the winning label and send it away for a bag of Toko-Cola merchandise. That's the price of life to them.

Sooooo... Burgerman drew the syllable out while searching for the right words to follow. You're saying that I can borrow your blanket?

Don't trust any government scum. They don't care about us, they only want-

Burgerman's thoughts compressed into a 50-megatonne scream, but for once he bit his tongue. The blanket was crucial to his plan, and Mr. Carbonated Trauma here sounded like he could snap at any moment.

What did I do to deserve this? A mere two days ago, Burgerman's life had been boring. No ghosts, no so-called doctors, no horrible excitement. He'd gotten out of bed and taken a hot, salty shower as per usual before pouring himself a bowl of Generic-O's. The only abnormal occurrence was wandering outside to find his newspaper missing. Fury had gripped him at the thought of having to wait five seconds for an online news site to load, so he had patrolled his yard in search of the thief. The quest for his newspaper - and perhaps street justice - had led him into the alleyway behind his house.

Most apartment dwellers talked about one day buying a house. However, he would have sold his house in an instant for the chance to live in a Central City apartment building, if only his dump of a home had been worth a cent. On top of the abode's cracked doorframes and peeling wallpaper and peeling bricks behind said wallpaper, the town of Gherkindale was a hub for tedium, and every thirty minute bus ride to Central City drove him closer to actual insanity.

One redeeming quality of his home was the alley behind it. Although it was twice as decrepit as the house, this hidden passage belonged solely to him. Not that anyone else would want this lane of coarse concrete and splintered timber. Burgerman knew it was illogical to get romantic over a place more rundown than his house, but something about the alley charmed him, with its spray-painted graffiti left over from past generations of misfits. His house was a house, where he was forced to live. The alleyway was his cubby, and even if he was old enough to own a home, he would always be young enough for a cubby. He would search that empty space for nothing day after day, and would always find it.

So, on that fateful morning when his newspaper had vanished, his first thought had been to enter the alleyway - just in case the paper boy had thrown it twenty metres off-target and through a solid wall. Burgerman dared not remember what he found in the alley instead...

They promised us parades! the cola-man ranted as he stepped away from the seat. Two floats and a junior marching band is not a parade! While he presented a monologue in his own little world, Burgerman took the chance to unstick his swim shorts from his lower buns. Thank Waffelius they let me keep my swimmers, he thought, shuddering at the idea of being strapped up in strait-Speedos. Despite the name Hamburgulon VI, the planet was inhabited by many species of food-people, meaning just as many sizes and shapes of clothing. Most of the rounder species like hamburgers and apples opted out of wearing shirts, since their pantaloons covered at least half of their bodies.

Unlike his rotund brethren, though, Burgerman wore the same pair of swim pants everywhere, with little regard for the location's wetness or chlorine levels. Though it was now a matter of routine rather than effort, this trend had begun when former classmate Tesers O'Malt had mocked these fabled swimmers during gym class. Something to the effect of Those pants are kinda faded, as Burgerman remembered. Burgerman had retaliated by wearing these swimmers every day for the next week, even adjusting his position on the school bus to make sure Tesers got a front-row view of this act of defiance.

If only he could see me now, thought Burgerman as a trio of asylum residents linked arms and danced around the cola-man war veteran. He'd be so bent that I'm winning.

As he faced a direction where the wind wasn't tangling his lettuce hair, his attention was drawn to another pair of loony foods. The jittery slice of pizza - Larry, if he could recall - claimed to have seen a flying alien vehicle. To assure the authorities that he wasn't some UFO nut, he'd identified the flying object as a limousine. His mannerisms were commonplace compared to the preteen mozzarella cheese girl, who hoarded every bottle cap she could find and constantly spoke of the frog. Burgerman looked past both residents. His prize was the battered trash can beside the chain-link fence.

Perfecto, he uttered, plucking the cola-man's discarded blanket from the bench. He scanned once more for guards, then strode to the trash can.

Mister person burger, said the mozzarella girl as he moved, her large eyeballs glossy with distress, you'll give me the magic blanket when you're done with the magic blanket, right? My caps need polishing for the frog.

Yeah, sure. Whatever. Weirdo.

Burgerman twisted a corner of the blanket into a spike, then threaded it through a hole in the bin before tying a knot. I don't care if they believe my story. Ghosts or not, I'm out of here.

He swung the bin around vertically by the attached blanket, looking up to the fence's top. Once his makeshift grappling hook had gained momentum, he let go.

Hey!

As the bin sailed upright, Burgerman spun to see an asylum guard - a grainy white tablet-person in a jumpsuit - running towards him while raising his whistle necklace to his lips.

Oh crumbs! The whistle screeched as the bin fell beside Burgerman, having failed to pass the fence top. He yanked it off the ground and spun it once more in a panic. The guard's footsteps grew louder.

Burgerman let go, and this time, the bin soared over the barrier. As it dangled on the other side, he climbed the blanket like a rope. Just as he neared the top, he saw the knot undo itself and the bin and blanket detach.

Blast! I knew I should've tied a double-knot! He grabbed the rusting wire near the fence's top and pulled himself halfway over... just as the guard grabbed his shoelace.

No! I'm too close! Burgerman gripped the fence netting until the tendons in his wrist bulged. I... can make it! He felt the guard's clutch loosen as the shoelace came undone.

Good thing I don't double-knot my laces. He dragged himself over the barricade and landed on the grass outside the asylum.

He'd done it.

He was free.

Every fibre of Burgerman's bun begged him to do a victory dance, but a glimpse back revealed that a perimeter guard was sprinting for him. He sprung off as his undone lace whipped the opposite ankle, cursing that the hospital's budgeters had chosen more guards over better doctors.

Gotta find a clearing. The trees beside the building were too dense. Maybe a path leading into the forest, or a- What the...?

A black blotch eclipsed the sun as something spiralled towards his face. He threw up his hands just in time to catch-

A football? Oh no.

He remembered that the Central City Melonheads practised their game in the field beside the hospital several times a week. A busload of watermelon-men and rockmelon-men and honeydew-men in football gear saw the ball in Burgerman's hand, ignored everything else, and charged.

This is not my time of year.

The Melonheads stampeded from the left. The perimeter guard charged from the right. The mozzarella girl improvised a cheerleading routine behind the fence, using her body to form letters that spelled no discernible word. Out of options and breath, Burgerman bolted for the forest.

There's one of me and fifty of them. If I weave between the trees they'll have trouble keeping up. Wait, why am I still holding the footba-

He jutted forward, tripping over his undone shoelace. The guard locked Burgerman's arms behind his back the instant his knees hit the ground. Within a split second, the first of the footballers flattened both men with his body, and the rest of the team joined the dog pile one by one. Burgerman opened his mouth, perhaps intending to say My escape attempt seems to have failed, given recent developments, but even the breathlessness had been squeezed from his lungs.

"Gimme a P! chanted the mozzarella girl behind the fence. Gimme a J! Gimme a W! Gimme a 7! Gooooooooooooo FROG!"

Burgerman mimed a groan. If the ghosts didn't kill him, group therapy would.

Chapter 3 - Food Group Therapy

I ran around the block 'til I was sure the ghosts had stopped chasing me. After a while, I crept back into the house and called the police. They didn't believe me, of course. Burgerman shuffled in his seat, his newly acquired foot cuffs clinking. So I grabbed my camera - one of those ancient flash cameras that print the photo right after you take it. I wanted to be a photographer as a kid, but I never got any good at it. He gave a single dry chuckle. My dad was annoyed that he wasted his money on a gift I only used a few times.

Aside from Burgerman and Dr. Pihl, group therapy consisted of four other patients in straightjackets; a middle-aged male corncob, a comatose ice cream sandwich drooling from his open mouth, a chocolate chip cookie who hastily checked over his shoulder every ten seconds and a pineapple with a downward-bent monobrow. This ensemble of different-minded denizens remained silent on their icy fold-up chairs as Burgerman told his story. He could practically smell the raw steel of the seats, though it was overpowered by layers of pungent lunatic sweat and medicine breath.

Burgerman continued: Snapping the ghosts wasn't easy. Had to sneak back into the alley a different way, take the shot, then run like hell to the police station. I gave the photo to the cops as it developed, but... there were no ghosts in it. I still can't explain that, but it didn't stop me from trying.

Mmm-hmm, and that's when they called me, said Dr. Pihl, ever calm. What did these ghosts looked like?

Burgerman fished around in his darkest memory for details. Their legs were thin, like those parts of a tooth that go into the gum. They didn't have feet. It was like... He glanced at every corner of the room that didn't contain a pair of eyes. Their legs kinda trailed off into vapour. I think they were hovering when they... When they came after me. He sucked on his lip. Recalling this recent trauma was daunting enough alone. There was no way he could pour his heart out to a mentally unstable asylum occupant or his four patients.

And why do you think the ghosts wanted to grab you?

I dunno. Wrong place, wrong time? I can't imagine that I'm the key to some paranormal monster conspiracy. That whole idea is absurd. [EDITOR: It's not too late to make the protagonist something other than a hamburger. Just a thought.]

The doctor nodded along while jotting something on to his clipboard. Illusions of the paranormal are quite common in my area of study. People often claim to have seen ghosts or aliens or flying saucers or celebrities. None of those things are real. Therefore, they cannot be photographed.

They weren't an illusion! If I'd just imagined them, why didn't I also imagine seeing them in the photo? And if they-

I've had enough of this guy, said the corncob man, prompting a glare from Burgerman. Give me a chance to talk.

Please Mr. Cobb, your time will come, said Pihl. He glanced at his wristwatch. Mr. Cobb, would you like to share your story? Burgerman grinded his molars. The police and the hospital had spent a combined zero minutes researching into his claim. He wondered how many of the home's patients were falsely locked away, but regardless, the residents' far-fetched ramblings made him want to headbutt the floor. Maybe they all saw him in the same light.

Nothing's changed, he thought. I'm still all the help I can get. There had to be some other way of escaping. First step: find a way to break his foot cuffs. Hadn't the Cola War veteran mentioned that some resident used to be a locksmith?

He struggled to focus on planning as Cobb took the spotlight. It's getting harder to tell my dreams and reality apart, said the middle-aged corncob in a deep whisper, Burgerman just now noticing how well groomed his hair was for someone with both arms bound. When I open my eyes each morning, I can't help but wonder if it's just a false-awakening inside a much larger dream. How does anyone truly wake up?

I'd recommend caffeine, said Dr. Pihl.

Sometimes when I dream, I enter this backwards world where everything's dark. Cobb looked to the ceiling, a new sparkle in his eyes. His elbows jutted out as if he were trying to grasp something. But there's always one ray of light. A beautiful mushroom woman, red with white spots, beckoning for my touch. And just as I near her- he crumpled into himself -the dream ends.

He stuck his tongue out at me! said the monobrow pineapple, staring daggers at the vacant ice cream sandwich. This outburst caused the chocolate chip cookie - Budd, if Burgerman recalled - to frantically look around.

That's impossible, said Dr. Pihl. Jerry has been in a coma for three months now. I only brought him here to fill the spare seat, in case the stock photographers show up today. Turning back to Cobb, he said: I've heard many tales of patients confusing the nature of reality. For example, Mr. Napple here claims that a golden waffle in the clouds has been watching him.

I told you, said the pineapple, "that's not insanity, it's my religion. Waffelianism has over ten-million followers worldwide. There's a Sunday prayer service in this hospital."

Could people stop interrupting me? said Cobb. Let me finish before I wake into an even worse dream.

We're all awake here, said Dr. Pihl.

Apart from Jerry. Burgerman rolled his eyes. The sooner he escaped, the better. Once he broke his foot cuffs, he would need to find a new way over the fence. Problem is, guards will be eyeing the boundary like crazy after my last attempt. His gaze fell to the ground. Maybe there's a way under?

You're all here, said the doctor, because each of you sees reality as an oppressive force. It's time to stop hating the hurtful truths and start embracing them. I'm writing a book on this very topic. Right now. He mumbled while scribbling on his clipboard. "Hating... hurtful truths... embracing... Does anyone have a good synonym for reality?"

Forget about that! shrieked Budd the cookie, and Burgerman's heart rocketed into his throat. He'll be here for me any minute! The young man's eyelids twitched as his pupils darted left to right. "The hairy blue one. He feeds on my kind. We're nothing but sustenance to him, man. And those bulbous eyes. So googly... So, so googly..."

Ignore him. Just think, are there any sewer lines going directly under the hospital? Or maybe a subway? Burgerman squinted until his temples hurt. I should've read that Urban Utilities pamphlet. The mailman swore that it would save my life one day.

His eyes exploded open as Budd's hand tightened on his wrist. "Those ghosts you saw. You said one of them was... blue?"

There are no ghosts and no monsters, said Dr. Pihl with the first hint of annoyance Burgerman had heard in his voice. Please, Budd. The average brain must beat seventy-two times a minute to pump blood around the body. I urge you not to stress yours further with such ridiculous fears.

Ahem! said Cobb. "Can we please get back to my story? I've barely even begun to-"

Jerry called me fat! said Mr. Napple. Another line of drool fell from Jerry's open mouth as he gazed at nothing. You wanna take me, punk? Right here?

He's here!? said Budd, jumping off his seat and spinning to check every inch of the room.

"One minute, said Cobb through gritted teeth. That's all I'm asking for."

My mother was not! said Napple to Jerry, monobrow forming a 'V'.

Mother... said Budd. You were devoured all too soon.

Enough! yelled Dr. Pihl, locking on to each pair of eyes in turn and gripping the neck whistle they all hated. Each patient straightened up, exchanged a glance with their fellow inmates and gradually sat. Footsteps from the corridor were once again audible. "Focus