The Sandwich King
By Robert Lynch
“In the land of no sandwiches, the man with a sandwich is King,” Darius said thought as he scarfed down a sandwich.
“You seem to have dropped from Sandwich King to sandwich peasant,” Andre said.
“Such is life,” Darius replied, “The sandwich is not meant to live long in this world, like a mayfly, it imparts its brief magnificence on the universe, then succumbs to entropy.”
“Impressive really,” Imogen said, “That sandwich is the result of what, six months’ work? And after six months concerted effort with the most advanced tools known to man you were only able to create a cucumber pickle and tofu sandwich.”
“I will agree that cucumber pickle and tofu may not be the best sandwich,” Darius defended, “However, it was for a brief moment the most exceptional sandwich on Mars.”
Imogen nodded, “And the worst. It was the only sandwich.”
“As mission shrink, I applaud Darius’ pursuit to achieve such a small comfort. It can be a significant lift to moral to follow his example.” Wayne said, “As for the choice of spending six months doggedly working to make a cucumber and pickle sandwich, clearly he has gone mad.” Wayne reached over and grabbed a slice of bread, dunking it into the vegetable stew on his plate.
“I see how it is.” Darius said, lifting the chopping board with the remaining bread high in the air, “I’m a madman for wanting a sandwich, but you’ll happily tuck into my bread.” He laughed and made a show of denying anyone else a piece. The mess hall filled with laughter at the game.
“Bread is all well and good,” Imogen said. “But now we have flour the question is how long before we have cake?”
Darius brought the chopping board back to the table and the bread pieces quickly disappeared amongst the rest of the crew. “Cake requires milk at least. I think we’ll have a hard time acquiring that. Eggs are out of the question I’m afraid.”
“There’s always the lab rats.” Bryan laughed, “They’re mammals, they produce milk.”
“Rat milking is definitely your job,” Darius replied.
“I’m not eating rat cake,” Danette said, “Although you don’t actually need milk per se, just the proteins, we might be able to knock something up that would do the job.”
“Alright,” Imogen said. “We’ll stop all other work on the base and focus on the cake initiative, Central Command back on Earth is sure to agree that we need cake more than we need power or air, after all.”
Laughter again erupted throughout the mess. Imogen glanced at the clock. “Alright, lunchtime is over. Joe, you and I have cleaning duty on the solar panels. Darius good work on the bread. But don’t get a big head, that cucumber pickle is terrible.”