Quality inspectors examine Mommy-Munchers all day long, making sure the nuts distribute evenly throughout the chocolate. Sometimes they form obscene shapes or words, in which case the offensive candy is tossed down a chute, where it is burned, sprinkled over land without a country, and then the earth salted. That's the official story. Unofficially, I've heard stories about the nuts spelling out messages, like, "Please help us," and "Don't eat me."
Some people do nothing but load thousands of packages of candy bars, and jelly beans, and sour balls onto trucks, all day long. Some drive the trucks that endlessly carry crates to trains, and ships. Sugar flows like the Amazon to every nation on Earth. Products could end up anywhere from Quezon City to Upper Mont Clair.
A thin, strong man with long stubble, wearing a Harley-Davidson t-shirt, carries a box of machine parts. "Hey Reynolds, I hear your old lady was out last night."
Reynolds laughs. His hair is Jheri curled. He wears the uniform sleeves rolled up, the buttons undone down to his navel, showing his nice sweater and chain. Behind him is a big poster of the Pie Girl pointing her finger at the viewer. She's holding up her other arm, which is a bloody stump, severed at the wrist. The sign says, "It has been [0] days, since our last accident. BE CAREFUL." The 0 is handwritten on a piece of paper, spotted with blood.
Reynolds mans a desk with hundreds of controls and numbers, but pays more attention to his tabloid with the headline, "BUSH MARRIES SAUDI PRINCE IN SECRET GAY CEREMONY!!!" In gravel voice he answers, "Never mind my old lady. You better keep your eye on your old lady."
Neither notices the white rat exploring the floor around the computer. "If my lady looked as good as yours, I wouldn't take my eyes off her."
"You're thinking about her right now, aren't you?"
Reynolds has a big smile revealing his gold tooth. "I sure am."
They don't see the rodent run across the top of a keyboard, changing one of the many numbers on the screen from 155 to 284.
"Just make sure you keep it in your mind."
"Oh don't worry." The animal disappears into a space between computers. "I'm keeping it right here." He taps his temple and laughs.
Wires run to the computer building, where electrons put on a big dance number, then out to the massive building they call The Oven, into one of the mixing rooms, and through a complicated tangle of pipes, to a giant computer connected to hundreds of nozzles which spray low frequency pulses into a whirlpool of purple batter. White flour constantly pours into the great tub from one conveyor belt, and white sugar from another.