Some say Casey Hall is a real snack machine. That’s because one night he went out for a packet of the Captain’s Wafers, but as he hit B3 some super witchy lightning struck the exact same button, trapping his soul on the shelf next to the Goobers. Forever, probably.
The void stretches out forever in every direction.
It is without any sound, context or sense of time.
You can close your eyes to try to escape the void but the empty darkness of your momentary blindness is the exact shape, size and texture of the void.
In the void, there are no potato chips. No sandwich cookies, no sugar shelled pastel almonds, nothing made from corn, nothing at all.
If you are desperate, you can lick the physical manifestation of hunger from your own lips. Once it is gone you will feel hungrier than before.
No one ever comes to visit in the void, but you have more or less until the exhaustion of all time to prepare for their arrival, so the very least you can do is have some snacks ready.
Attempt to bend the constraints of the void into something shaped like an eternal bowl.
Scream into the void bowl pure rhetorical expressions of your hunger in bite-sized nuggets.
Like the ocean, the void bathes everything with a natural brine, curing your attempt at sustenance with a delightful stinging salinity.
Find a warm part of the void.
Wait there, vibrating with hope that eventually an egg will be sent to the void by the same inexplicably cruel force that sent you here.
Take some leftover void, ground up and smushed into awful little balls.
Spread some miserable void across two slices of leavened void.
Broil them in the exhausting hatred you feel in your every waking moment in the void.
Serve with pickled void spears.
Nothing good will ever exist in the void.