“Haha I win again! Man Delly, you suck at NBA Jam!”
“Shut up Dion you know I only have one good controller. As the good host that I am I graciously let you use it. The buttons on the one I’m using are all sludgy and horrible.”
“Always with the excuses. Damn, all this ass-kicking is makin’ me hungry. Food time! It’s gonna be like the crusades except instead of the holy land it’s gonna be your god damned fridge.”
Dion Waiters got up from the ratty couch situated in Matthew Dellavedova’s ratty apartment and disappeared from sight into the kitchen area. The sound of the refrigerator opening was heard, and then the sound of it closing, follow by rummaging through cabinets. A confused voice emanated out.
“Yo, where do you keep the real food?”
“What do you mean? It’s in the fridge.”
“I mean, something other than Vegemite. Something for normal people.”
“What’s wrong with Vegemite? Stuff’s good for you, and delicious to boot.”
“You avoiding my question, but I’m beginning to think I won’t like the answer.”
Dion Waiters reappeared and sat back down, his hunger unsatiated. They played a few more round of NBA Jam, with Dion winning handily every time.
“Yo, we should switch controllers, ain’t no fun to keep beating you like this.”
They switched. Dion looked at his new controller curiously, tried out some of the buttons, then brought it up to his nose and took a big whiff. He laughed uneasily.
“Hey, I think I figured out why this controller sucks so bad. It’s totally caked with Vegemite. On the pads, in the buttons, everywhere! And your fridge, it’s full of the stuff! Must be a hundred of jars in there! And now that I think about it, this whole place reeks of the stuff! The hell is wrong with you, man? You be addicted to Vegemite like Michael Jordan was addicted to gambling!
Dellavedova’s expression remained unchanged.
“I don’t know, Dion. I just like Vegemite.”