They inch toward each other, toward an innocent kiss, a chummy smile, a warm greeting. This is their (platonic) Lady-and-the-Tramp moment.
But in Suicidefoodland, the spaghetti strand for two and its comforting trappings of civility—of shelter and of tradition—are replaced by the spit.
The spit that pierces them, forging its own course through them like a river released by a dam, heedless of bank, of topology. Insistent, urgent. What once was pent up, now reckless as violence.
So they perch upon their own impalement, and hell achieves a grim normalcy.
"Where friends meat."
This might be inscribed above the gates of the underworld!
Could anything be more loathsome than that slogan and its sick gallows humor? Effortlessly, it warps pleasant, everyday society into a nightmare vision of undying torment.
Without the grinning, impaled pigs, it might mean, "Let us gather so that we might eat dead animals." But as depicted here? It can only convey, "Let us become meat!"
"This is horribly painful, pal!"
"(Tee hee!) I know, buddy!"