Letters of the church of burgertimeBURGERTIME GOTHIC: Is Chef Pepper Goth?, being a PERTINENT RAMBLING from BRIAN, HUNCHBACKED MINION of the church of burgertime
Burgertime Gothic Is Chef Pepper Goth? |
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The deep deep deep black abyss of a background says it all. Burger Time is more than just entertainment, it's a statement of the meaningless toil and eternal slavery we all endure in this game called life. It is a game of a lost soul, performing endless repetitive jobs under the threat of oblivion. As a wee lad, I stood before the upright arcade machines at the only digital refuge of the day, the 77-11. Yes, the 7-11 was the only place to forget my anguish with slushie and video game, in the suburban Texas nightmare I related to. It stood with three other machines there, each machine was woefully outdated. Being forced to face the atrocity of the local shopping mall my siblings brought me the painful knowledge of how old these games were already. Yet I returned each day after school to spend my meager amount of money and drown my angst in the dark world of Burger Time.
The irony of Chef Pepper's toil is not lost on gamers such as myself.
Given his miniscule size, he hasn't the ability to consume the burgers he
is creating. He is a slave to a greater dark power, with endless hunger
for the burgers he creates. The Chef is a tool, the executioner for the
ancient one, set forth upon the world of Burgers to reap a harvest of
souls. We, cast into his tiny shoes, are meant to sympathize with his
plight. But in deeper analysis we see it is not simple labor he performs,
but an existential torture.
The adversity presented increases with each morsel of darkness he brings
forth. The enemies in the world of BugerTime are not enemies at all, they
are simple beings fighting to preserve their lives. For in the end, they
all are morsels for the nameless dark lord. Many of them are ingredients
for the burgers which the Chef creates. Wave after wave throw themselves
at him, trying to save their homes from the eternal hunger which feeds on
their world, trying to prevent him from taking their precious cultural
treasures of cones, coffee, and fries.
The Chef's weapon against them, a spiteful one, not even giving them the
freedom of death but merely burning their eyes and face with handfuls of
pepper. When they look forth from the fire he has cast upon them, their
homes are gone, and they are forgotten in the history of worlds lost.
No reward is apparent for this endless labor, with the exception of the
score, the treasures of his enemies, and sense that his work has been
consumed by his dark lord. The score itself speaks volumes, bright red
numbers racing higher and higher, only rewarded by inevitable death. It
validates the finality of our existance, no matter we succeed, all will
end. Even the glory of the high score fades from memory as the proprietor
of the 7-11 unplugs it each night, resetting it, allowing even the most
meager master of the game to attain it if they arrive first. We too
engage in meaningless toil, bringing us closer to the self of the Chef.
So weep for the Chef, he knows not what horrors he brings and has no
choice but to toil on. In a world of war, disease, greed, hate, and anger
he is a symbol of how even the most virtuous of us commit evils out of
ignorance and boredom. One day, as the pickles and eggs and hotdogs he
once persecuted descend upon him, and he shall cry out 'My lord! Why hast
thou forsaken me?' and the only answer shall be the deep deep deep silence
of the abyss.
the Hunchbacked Minion of the Church of BurgerTime |
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The Churches and Letters
