Some things just stay with you.
This one time, Rybone ordered a Spicy
Chicken combo at Wendy's and it had a tomato on it. Now, the Spicy Chicken sandwich, besides
being a beacon of edibility in the otherwise deadly landscape of debauched and largely
indigestible fast food fare, typically comes topped with both lettuce and
tomato along with the white, totally non-jizz-like sauce. Ryebone, however, has an unnatural,
irrational hatred of tomatoes that borders on psychopathic rage. I asked him to explain it once, and he got
this crazed look in his eye, a cross between a man pushed passed the brink and
a rabid animal about to rampage. Through
his rage he sputtered something about how tomatoes "rob a man of his
goddamned virility" and that bisected or sliced tomatoes look like
"some weird fucking space vaginas" coming to "suck your soul out
through the tattered shreds of your asshole." He then proceeded to light his pubic hair on
fire and put it out in a bowl of Ranch dressing, something he described as a
"purification ritual" between howls of what I'm still not sure were
pleasure or pain. I once saw him throw a
chair through a third story window at a party at the mere suggestion of
ordering a pizza with tomatoes on it.
One time I pointed out that it was funny
that although he hated tomatoes so much he seemed to love ketchup. By the time the police arrived, Rybone had
already dismantled most of the stove and was - as I was later informed -
dangerously close to completing his homemade flamethrower, with which he had
planned to burn through the bathroom door where I had barricaded myself to
"see if I was OK" and not "cleanse my impurity with the Holy Flame"
as we had previously stated.