1st bottle tastes like he’s tongue-kissing the ass of a nine-volt battery. The factory served it to Germ with burnt Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes slopped on empty trays. Can’t be that bad, Horsefly’s words dance through coworkers dressed in oil and soot. Athletes pregame this shit all the time, right? Makes their games look like rainbows. True, true. Germ performs another mouth-to-ass with this bottle, globs of radiated lemon burning his gullet while the label sings, LIGHTNING. Awaken your light inside! Never again, Germ says to no one.
2nd bottle when the factory’s air begins to boil and the supervisors fly their water cooler conversations to the double-digit floors. Horsefly loosens his durag, sneaks out the Punch, and cider drools from its neck with liquid so acidic it stings Germ’s blistered nail folds. The trick, Horsefly says, is to keep ya mind on all things good and yellow. Sunflowers. Mustard. Butter. Mac & cheese.
3rd bottle lanterns him through the night. Afterwork smut itches his throat. He may as well down this one, try to make it worth the pain. Lemonade. Corn on the cob. French fries. Banana pudding. Cheesecake.
4th bottle underneath the driver’s seat—unbeknownst to Germ—after his piece of shit hooptie gives out in a mighty belch. Roadside assistance estimates two hours; enough time for Germ to check his feed, slurp some LIGHTNING and count the SUVs hovering above rush hour.
5th bottle resembles the bottle on his feed. A pastor mourns an old man’s death until he is interrupted by a little girl holding a bottle full of yellow. I object! she yells, then marches up to the casket and presses the bottle’s mouth to the old man’s pale lips. He jolts upright and leaves the congregation in complete disarray, dancing down the aisle and out of his funeral with the bottle in his right hand, the little girl’s hand in the other, and this is exactly what Germ needs to endure his own LIGHTNING.
6th bottle in between his son’s happy birthday song, and an apology. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you anything. I tried getting you some cheesecake, but my car got fucked and the grocery store was far away and all the cornerstore had was this ice cream cake and… Germ’s hot tangents is melting the ice cream. His son strikes a spoon into his cake and says, it’s coo’, but Germ knows it’s not coo’, so he makes a promise. Once his ghetto cruiser is fixed, he’ll drive his son and his baby momma to the Cheesecake factory, let his son order from the adult menu and order the sweetest cheesecake under its Egyptian arches. His son looks at his father, squints, then points at a minute glow on his arm.
7th bottle when he decides OK, maybe I should check the ingredients. Sugar. Acids. Syrups. Caffeine. Yellow 6. Red 40. Green 3. Blue 1, as if he’s been downing crayons. Electrolytes, metal oxides, photocytes—the photocytes. Maybe that’s what has his veins flashing like a camera after every swig of this LIGHTNING. Germ considers all the athletes that pregame this shit and lets the photocytes hydrate him.
8th bottle envelops his tongue in a soft and bouncy texture. Germ realizes this isn’t LIGHTNING. Boba sloshes within this bottle in dark red neon like molecules in motion. Squishing them against the roof of his mouth releases a wet tart taste that electrifies his throat. It’s all we got, the cornerstore chimes, giving their own bottle a good ol’ shake. ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY for just $2.99, or maybe $14.99 for a six pack?
9th bottle fills his mouth full of fruity balls. ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY is a’ight, Horsefly reviews, but have you tried JELLYLISHIS JAM? Every bottle makes its own muthafuckin’ music! Horsefly reveals clear juice in a bottle sprinkled with lights. He unscrews the top and he drinks and drinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing to an internal rhythm. Tiny dots twinkle through his goatee.
10th bottle and ThunderPunch actually don’t taste that bad.
11th bottle cracks open over a job application. Something about the double-digit floors + an open window / gravity – a supervisor = an open position. Germ sits farthest away from the lunch tables answering each question from his workpad. Work experience? The factory. Employment history? The factory. How did you hear about us? The factory. Why do you want this position? The factory. Germ signs his government name and swishes his final trickles of LIGHTNING in his mouth before swallowing and tapping submit.
12th bottle as he bows his head in prayer. Father God, please let this ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY be treated as the blood of Christ. I follow in your light, oh Lord, so that one day my grateful hardworking ass will be promoted and served six-course meals on the factory’s highest floor. But for right now I’mma trust in you, oh God, and savor this nasty-ass pink jelly burrito I got sitting on this plate as the body of Christ. Amen.
13th bottle during a call with his son. Third grade sucks. I tried making friends like you said, but everybody calls me weird. Now Mommy’s new dude is trying to get me to play basketball and wear stupid jerseys. Absentmindedly tracing the faint light along his right forearm, Germ asks if that nigga is his father. His son sends a grin, says no. Then that nigga can’t make you do anything you don’t wanna do. I can, ‘cause I’m ya daddy, and I better not catch you picking up a muthafucking basketball. Germ’s baby momma shouts to watch his muthafucking mouth. The three erupt into a small band of laughter. His son teases every syllable. Mutha– trucking! Mutha– loving! Mutha– clucking, Mutha– having, Mutha– a deep bass steals their song. His son’s attention draws elsewhere. I have to go, his son whispers. Mommy’s new dude is taking us to the Cheesecake Factory.
14th bottle from his fridge, cold as it is sour. Germ searches for warmth through his feed. Who will you vote for in this election: The corporate toilet or the shit starter?, a clip from the hit new dating show, Love on a Whole Notha Level, where a doll takes their human date home to a factory in Tokyo, and NBA All-Star O.Khalil steps inside an empty stadium. He towers over Germ in his famous $499.99 (before tax) O.Khalil mech-foam jumps. NBA All-Star O.Khalil uses his palm tech to 3D print an asteroid of green slime and tells Germ to check this out. NBA All-Star O.Khalil initiates a spring mod on his left leg—gunmetal with bits of melanin—then rockets from one side of the court to the other and slams the slimeball into the basket. The sheer force alone is enough to liquefy the hoop into a murky swamp. NBA All Star O.Khalil steps back to process his mess, then flexes a long alien-green tongue and offers a bottle to Germ. Lower calories, lower pain, because ThunderPunch’s new flavor, POWER PLANT is here to give you More Power, More Gain!
15th bottle with a frosted-milkshake strawberry Pop-Tart, and it’s an early house party in his mouth packed with sugar, spice, and sparks, cut short when a button pops from his coveralls. He free-throws the bottle in the trash. Misses. ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY’s uninvited beads spill all across the bus shuttle's floor.
16th bottle when the factory’s vending machines are drowning in nothing but ThunderPunch. Germ vowed no more until he and his baby momma and his son are cursing over some muthafuckin’ cheesecake, but Germ won’t have a muthafuckin’ life if he doesn’t drink something under this intense heat, so he must remind his tastebuds of LIGHTNING’s astringent taste. Pineapples. Cornbread. Scrambled Eggs. Where the fuck is Horsefly to remind him it’s not that bad?
17th bottle added to shopping cart. The cornerstore sips doo-doo green from their bottle like hot tea. It’s ThunderPunch’s new flavor, POWER PLANT! S’posed to be healthy for ya. Germ gives it a try, his momma’s collard greens pouring into his mind, with a canned yam aftertaste served on the occasions she felt proud to be a mother. The cornerstore shines a goofy smile. Feel healthy yet?
18th bottle leaves a sticky green fingerprint on his screen as Germ types p h o t o c y t e s into his feed. The first search result takes him inside an aquarium. A young guy in a ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY graphic crop top greets Germ with a chipper attitude and fireballs in his eyes. What if I told you that your body emits a teeny-weeny bit of light imperceptible to the human eye? But with a bottle of ThunderPunch it awakens your light inside, all thanks to photocytes, itty bitty cells that lend animals like these jellyfish swimming inside these tanks their bioluminescence, spliced and homegrown by the most experienced microbiologists in the field right here within ThunderPunch’s labs. Aside from ThunderPunch’s innovative aesthetics, a bottle of ThunderPunch is actually more harmless than a can of Coke. The aquarium dims condenses into a small patient room. The tour guide's left arm is lit with raspberry, ripe pickings for a doctor with a syringe to locate the juiciest vein. The doctor blinks asymmetrically at Germ. I guess a ThunderPunch a day really does keep the doctors at bay.
19th bottle rescues him from a gas station breakfast sandwich. Rubbery sausage doesn’t slide down well. The lumpy eggs make him gag. The bread flakes sucks the saliva from his tongue’s spongy root. But this JELLYLISHIS JAM jams a repetitive tune right into his eardrums when he drinks it; a hip hop sample that Germ imagines these new rappers would go crazy over—radical and rude, with an unnecessary rich umami taste, earworming down to his belly.
20th bottle offered by the auto repair. Yo catalytic converter gon’. Prolly stolen. The auto repair twiddles a toothpick in their mouth. ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY bloodies their silver grillz. Catalytic converters got that rhodium, and them thangs sell like gold these days. The auto repair chuckles, though Germ finds nothing funny. The auto repair clears their throat, says, You’re looking at about $5000 and some change to fix this bitch.
21st bottle from: Germ, to: Germ. Do you know any cool spots to celebrate a birthday? Germ asks the cornerstore for no particular reason at all. The cornerstore’s mouth drops at the sudden question, hints of POWER PLANT growing on their tongue as they draw near. I know a spot.
22nd bottle mixes with tequila and ignites a tiny flame in a glass. Technically, this bottle shouldn’t count. The drink awakens in a deep ochre—a fiery lemon, or a lemon on fire—aside a basket of glossy hot wings and celery; a dirty combination that Germ is sure will irritate every pipe and tube of his body. The spiciness warms his belly as he searches for any unoccupied booty that calls for him, because shouldn’t every birthday end with feeling like a king; full, indulgent, and loved? 22nd bottle paints an outside brick wall in the fluorescent shape of a teardrop or a booger. Germ calls it a lightning strike. He shakes the pain off the tip of his dick and accepts this LIGHTNING stashed in his pocket as his 22nd bottle.
23rd bottle reverberates through his guts like a grimy sub bass and shits ectoplasm. Germ is convinced he’s dead, but has been denied entry to heaven, so he haunts this bathroom floor, cold, emptied, and alone. His alarm says otherwise.
24th bottle to pregame his shift.
25th bottle where the triple-digit temperatures have put too many coworkers into comas.
26th bottle where the mechanized farts have shriveled his poor lungs.
27th bottle to stay awake, because one slip might turn his body into disfigured meat.
28th bottle nearly spills when he spots Horsefly! Except he’s no longer Horsefly. This man prefers the name Mister Croomer. Mister Croomer doesn’t man a station. Mister Croomer mans a cubicle. Mister Croomer doesn’t wear coveralls. Mister Croomer is packaged neatly in slacks and a black polo. Along a hydraulic joint is where Mister Croomer notices a sparkle. Mister Croomer wipes it from the metal with his index finger and gives it a proper lick, forehead vein busting to the taste. Germ, Germ, Germ. Shouldn’t you know by now that ThunderPunch is unhealthy for the machinery? Ditch that shit and step ya game up! Les I have to bring the disinfectant. Mister Croomer laughs hideously at his own joke, as the elevator flies him to the double-digit floors.
29th bottle because fuck Mister Croomer’s bullshit rules.
30th bottle had to wait until the factory served it with pork rib shaped patties. Germ contemplates how he will fix his hooptie, drive his son and baby momma to the Cheesecake Factory, and afford more Punch if he’s disinfected.
31st bottle after he punches out of work, steps outside and, finally, can consume without guilt. The factory’s fortress looms so high into its own disgusting must, Germ can only guess where this well-paid nightmare—even if he can barely afford to fix his car, his house, his food, his son—Germ sighs, already forgetting the point to his complaints. He’ll start these complicated feelings at the factory’s mouth, throwing his empty bottle at its front revolving doors and blowing a peace out.
32nd bottle and everyone can see him. If not, feel him. The attention is intoxicating, from the busdriver who must adjust his mirrors upon Germ’s arrival, to the passengers’ shielding their eyes, to this random nigga crazy enough to sit beside Germ, look in his eyes and say, you a lightbulb-lookin-ass nigga!
33rd bottle refused by this nigga, burdening Germ’s light with questions. Do it hurt? How much you drinking? How’d you get hooked on this shit? Not really. Who the fucks counting? Soon as Germ mentions the factory, this nigga’s nose bends upwards as if bullshit has been smelled. Fuck the factory, he scowls. All my niggas hate the factory. It’s a job, Germ says. A job that stole our hood, this nigga rebuttals, gesturing to the mom-and-pop shop that once owned this parking lot, now reduced to a vegetative memory. This nigga makes it close to him, palms on his Punch. Germ’s insides begin to churn. You a lightbulb-lookin-ass nigga because they’re trying to light your ass up, my nigga. To them, you’re dynamite. You’ll explode, they’ll blame the Punch. End the LIGHTNING. Now. But Germ paid $2.99 for this LIGHTNING. The least he can do after a hard day’s work is enjoy his guilty pleasure. This nigga refuses to let go. Something rises in Germ’s throat. Germ pulls his Punch. This nigga pulls his Punch. It’s a tug-o-war until—
34th bottle is the first to feel like a must. Germ falls on all fours and vomits ectoplasm as thick as egg yolk onto his WELCOME HOME! rug. He realizes, yes. Yes, I did make it home.
35th bottle to cope with the guilt.
36th bottle with three tablets of Tylenol.
37th bottle and he blames the nigga, not the bottle.
38th bottle and he blames the bottle, not the nigga.
39th bottle silences his voicemails. Your scheduled 2PM - 12AM shift was today, but we didn’t see you. A reminder that you are scheduled to work at 2PM today. Hi Jermelle, is everything ok? What can we do to help you? We’re dedicated to our employees' safety. Are you currently feeling unwell, have an emergency, or under threat? Germ rests as a nightlight in his bed, crinkling the bottle’s plastic against his forehead.
40th bottle and he blames the factory, not the bottle, nor the nigga.
41st bottle detonates on his tongue. Oh my gawd, the cornerstore gurgles. It’s rike riny explosions in my hroat. The cornerstore swallows and goes, yo, you good? Germ pauses in between sips of his CHERRY BOMB, fully absorbing the harsh icy crystals that offer his brain an aha moment. Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.
42nd bottle and he acknowledges that yes, that nigga did in fact premeditate a robbery, a murder, or something, so it was within his right to regurgitate all that accumulated sewage in his stomach all over that nigga’s face. That nigga deserved it. Probably.
43rd bottle from the vending machines where his coworkers are packed like multi-flavored packs of ThunderPunch. Different flavors pump beneath their skin. ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY, LIGHTNING, and something else that makes Germ remember a clear blue sky. All give Germ a thumbs up, a dap, an I see you!
44th bottle presented by his coworker. Germ leans over his mystery meat in a bun, hungry for her words. Slow things down with SLUSH WAVE! she advertises. Royal-blue slush splits and collides within this bottle. A waxy taste flows cooly down his throat.
45th bottle challenges his 44th bottle. Why slow things down when you can blow things up with CHERRY BOMB? He slams the bottle on the lunch table so each coworker gets a clear view of the crimson minefield waiting to pop in his mouth.
46th bottle sits atop a pyramid of empty bottles. Germ rolls his 45th bottle across the lunch table and… Strike! All his coworkers breakdance to the bottles’ symphonious slogans.
47th bottle poses with him for a group photo. Look up, Germ, say CHERRY BOMB! Germ bunches between his coworkers and throws up a deuce. He drowns his pain in their love.
48th bottle hides in Mister Croomer’s presence. Mister Croomer must squint through a festival of coworkers to recognize Germ, and Germ must study Mister Croomer’s crooked gait to realize this isn’t Mister Croomer. It’s Horsefly! Where were you? Horsefly asks. Germ could ask the same. It’s unlike Horsefly to struggle with words. I’ve seen some shit, Germ. Them niggas up there trying to kill us. Kill. Germ shakes that word out of his system and points his left middle finger—brightest and prominent—at Horsefly’s flaky and dull skin. No light flickers inside. CHERRY BOMB’s explosive brain-bending taste can fix that. A wave of supervisors land on the floor, and Horsefly flies off to where all horseflies might go, leaving the carcass that is Mister Croomer to swat Germ’s bottle away. A supervisor lays a palm on Mister Croomer’s shoulder. Michael, my guy. Have you applied the disinfectant yet? The supervisor chuckles, and Mister Croomer responds with a crocodile smile, tallying Germ’s mistakes, misconducts, and absences into his workpad. Yep, I was just informing Germ that today is his last day.
49th bottle on his last day.
50th bottle during today’s feed. Contestants dressed in all white stand around the greasiest buffet Germ has ever seen. The cleanest winner gets to sit amongst the stars in popstar HIIH0!’s Wet Dreams tour. Let’s wine and dine! Germ sings with the host. There is no wine, only fatback and steaks and fried chicken and pig snouts being washed down with mysterious bottles of strawberry milk. Germ pauses on a contestant’s oily lips wrapped around the bottle, her porcelain collar already lost in steak sauce. He leans further into this bottle. A mini HIIH0! widens her eyes in surprise, astonished to be on this bottle’s label, cross-legged in her dusty-rose pencil skirt and glittertech mega boots on the label’s two t’s: GLITTER POP. Hot pink whispers into each contestant's distended stomachs.
51st bottle will have to do since GLITTER POP isn’t sold in stores. Germ uses this LIGHTNING to imagine HIIH0!’s taste. Strawberry? Lavender? Pepto Bismol? Bubblegum melted down?
52nd bottle at the sight of his hooptie stripped to its metal bone. A quarter of SLUSH WAVE sings in their right hand as they hum a soft hymn. Skyblue runs deep in their neck. You gon’ need more than a catalytic converter to get this bitch running again. Germ floods his mouth full of POWER PLANT, considers if his momma ever actually cooked canned yams.
53rd bottle opens when his neighbor has the utmost audacity to flash his nebulous veins in a sleeveless shirt. Germ finishes his ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY in eight big gulps, hops off his porch and goes, Ey! I got twenty dollas that says who’s brighter.
54th bottle bought in exchange for his winnings, and since Germ is feeling festive, tosses in a TV dinner and an ice cream cake. The cornerstore leans over the counter in awe. Nigga, I can see your arteries!
55th bottle and Germ is rendered visible underneath his hoodie and umbrella cargos. A couple teenagers waffling outside the cornerstore compare him to that map that hangs in their biology class, exposing the blue and red webby strings of their bodies.
56th bottle when the neighbors pass by his porch and tease him. Nuclear-reaction-having-ass! You so bright I mistook you for moonlight. Yo ass could nurture a whole solar system. I bet the blindest guy can see you shine. I bet your momma is proud of you, an old woman’s words taint his light.
57th bottle surrounded by kids in a messy circle screaming his name as he speedruns LIGHTNING. Time! Five seconds. Enough for Germ’s entire being—fat to bone marrow—to radiate like rich unearthed uranium. The kids echo an audience of a thousand. Your dad is so cool, a young girl yells to his son.
58th bottle is half empty (or half full) when it’s handed down to his son. His cheeks puff to LIGHTNING’s power and Germ rubs his back in between coughs. I had to see you myself, his son says, though it’s difficult to look at his father, watching his reflection from the bus window. When the bus drops them off at the curb, his son tells him to save a bottle of ThunderPunch for him next time. Germ lips burn from his smile. Where’s ya momma? I want to show her something. Not here, his baby momma’s new dude says from behind the screen door, a cappuccino-looking-nigga with an evil pencil stache, clearly bothered by Germ’s heroic presence. Germ remembers the burn and tries not to laugh, returning to the bus shuttle to finish his half empty (or half full) bottle.
59th bottle falls out of his hand after a sudden stop, irradiating the bus floor in LIGHTNING before can save the rest. Germ looks up to see the busdriver pacing back and forth, hands thrown up. I love ya, Germ, but I can’t fucking see.
60th bottle cranks his brightness to an all-time high. Germ undresses himself. He flicks at his right thigh and watches the light ripple from the force. He listens to the crackle and hum when he tightens his muscles. He pokes out his butt. He sends a picture to his baby momma.
61st bottle over a beer-battered chicken and mixed vegetables TV dinner while his feed plays a caveman scampering on all fours through a desert. He climbs a sand dune to uncover a bottle of amber. A dutch angle leaves the caveman moistening his chapped lips. He takes one messy gulp and his knees buckle to the taste, hooting and hollering in prehistoric gibber until his skin solidifies, because ThunderPunch’s newest flavor, LIQUID FUNK, will leave you gold!
62nd bottle drizzles syrupy delight all across his tongue. Ah, so this is what gold tastes like: Honey, oil, milk and metal.
63rd bottle wins him his 64th bottle after another neighbor challenges his light. Against Germ, it’s no contest. This LIQUID FUNK ascends him into a golden idol. His neighbors rub every nook and cranny of his body, praying for his funk to rub off on them.
64th bottle is for nature’s paparazzi swarming at his window, dozens of them, trying to find intricate ways to crawl into his home.
65th bottle aside other bottles being emptied into a large jug. The cornerstore paces back and forth between an array of flavors. Start with ROCK ‘N RASPBERY. Slow it down with SLUSH WAVE. POWER PLANT for health reasons. No JELLYLISHIS JAM—the lack of color dilutes the light. Whoa! The jug erupts in a colorful sudsy collage, transforming the countertop into an artist’s palette while the cornerstore giggles like a mad scientist. Germ watches the cornerstore’s experiment from the chips section, refusing to let a good JELLYLISHIS JAM go to waste. Detonate it with CHERRY BOMB. Control that shit with LIQUID FUNK. End with LIGHTNING, and voilà—
66th bottle pours into what was his 65th, now glowing in a taupe color identical to Germ’s melanated complexion. Bottoms up! Germ downs the cornerstore’s concoction in four swift glugs. At first, nothing but the feeling of being full. Then, he drops the bottle. His limbs go numb, and that’s when he feels it: the million microbes on his skin sensitive to the pathetic fluorescent strips above, the million germs being picked apart. So. Many. Germs. So. Deliciously. Nasteh! A blissful paralysis peels out of the cornerstore, through his hood, far away where the factory becomes a blip in the horizon, and he sees the promised land: the Cheesecake Factory, under a pink and blue sky where the moon peaks, until he is pulled back to a solid and crunchy reality. The cornerstore trudges through condiments and candy bars, tickling his belly with a chaotically pixelated bare foot. You better keep chugging, they say, les I shine brighter than you.
67th bottle angles at a perfect forty-five degree angle. There is no explanation to this taste except pure unadulterated light. The cornerstore props Germ’s head from the dirty floor with their thigh. I’m the last nigga you need to be copying, Germ manages to murmur. Unh unh, they say. I’m not copying. I’m stealing. No difference, Germ whispers midway through feeding, and the cornerstore denies Germ no more of their nutrients until he listens like a good boy. Copying means you create something exactly like someone else without your own spice. Stealing means you snatch it and remix it for your own. Or maybe it’s all semantics. All copying is stealing, but not all stealing is copying? No. It’s deeper than that. The cornerstore now beams down at Germ, khaki in their pupils, heaving out every word. People. Steal. From others because they got all this shit figured out. They know their purpose in life. It makes the nobodies—like me—who ain’t got shit worth stealing, jealous. And nigga. I’m tryna steal your thunder. Germ still doesn’t know what the fuck the cornerstore is talking about, but for the cornerstore to see him in this light, it’s all he needs to admire their black gums and intense orange hue on their bottom lip. A toast, the cornerstore raises their own homebrew, to the GERMINATOR! Their wrists drum to an identical internal rhythm, and Germ watches their neck convulse and hollow into static.
68th bottle greets him in the morning; a freshly concocted GERMINATOR lays on his right (or maybe left?) side. The cornerstore’s checkered floors feel sticky and surprisingly warm. He cuddles this bottle’s mouth with his own and his thoughts rest on his baby momma, feeling the numbness spread again.
69th bottle must be shared. Unlike HIIH0!, Germ isn’t stingy.
70th bottle searches for the thunder to his lightning. Contestants stretch down his block. They are Christmas lights for his hood. It’s time to Rise and Shine! Germ sings with his contestants. Winner receives an exclusive action-packed GERMINATOR I caress in my hand. Contestant five? Too faint. Contestant twenty-one: buh-bye! Maybe cut back on that JELLYLISHIS JAM. Contestant fifty-two: Ooo, so muthafucking close! But contestant fifty-three is rising and shining. Contestant seventy-one: now that muthafucka’s radioactive! Hol’ up—contestant seventy-one must first answer the following question: which flavor unlocks the most light inside? Ding ding. LIGHTNING.
71st bottle as contestant seventy-one melts to the taste of him on his couch. Germ peers out the window to see not just any nigga, but that nigga, or some version of that nigga, watching this wicked reward with fascination. Germ blinks. That nigga is gone.
72nd bottle catches Mister Croomer’s sunken eyes. He meanders onto the porch uninvited, clutching Horsefly’s durag how a baby would a blanket to fend off nightmares. Mister Croomer opens his mouth to say nothing, helping himself to Germ’s six pack instead, unprepared for the deliciously nasty GERMINATOR that collapses him on the porch.
73rd bottle dizzily clanks with Mister Croomer’s. I disinfected you to protect you, Mister Croomer slurs. Germ calls out Mister Croomer’s lie. If I’m lying, my ass is flying, Mister Croomer says, gripping the porch rails and trying to wobble himself up. The factory would replace every last one of us with robots if they could, but that shit’s illegal, so they work us like robots, then blame rules and regulations when we die. Germ asks, what ever happened to Horsefly? He wipes the crust from his eyes, Niggas die in different ways, Germ, Mister Croomer says, then hops into his new black hovermobile and blasts off into the sunset.
74th bottle pours one out for Horsefly, who believed he could fly. None for Mister Croomer, who weighed him down.
75th bottle makes dust angels on the floors. The cornerstore chugs their GERMINATOR and crashlands on top of Germ. He studies every salt and shadow televised on the cornerstore’s forehead. The cornerstore plays with Germ’s flabs of arm meat hanging like a turkey’s wattle. Quit that shit, Germ says. I know my ass is fat. The cornerstore pinches a varicose vein protruding from his leg and whispers in his ear: We ain’t fat, we voluptuous.
76th bottle for the intent to jiggle those flaps, shake that belly, and let those folds pulse. All the lights in the club: shut down! ThunderPunch’s limited edition flavor, JACK-O’-LANTERN and its spooky pumpkin pie taste that makes up for the cum-suspicious-liquid has just been consumed by Germ, and he’s the one-and-only lightshow for all the monsters and freaks discoing to the club’s ratchet beats.
77th bottle greedily counts every dollar made. The strip club studies Germ’s light and tells Germ he’s got a jack-o’-lantern smile.
78th bottle is watched by a colorful constellation, who remind him that the car would be fixed by now if he quit buying all this damn ThunderPunch. Germ looks down from his rooftop, and light bursts out of his mouth from laughter. What would his followers think, to see their sun cruising past in a car that runs on gas and faith? No, there is no need to go anywhere. Love and LIGHTNING is what he runs on. That’s all he needs. The constellation disperses, and he really thinks of love, tries to taste it on his tongue, then crumbles into his bottle.
79th bottle gets that signature cornerstore shake within its six pack. Going soft, I see. No, Germ says to the cornerstore. This POWER PLANT is for my son.
80th bottle surprises his mouth with something sharp, then crunchy. Germ spits out a black tooth on the empty bus seat beside him, gums leaking ectoplasm with a sulfuric stench.
81st bottle because tossing ThunderPunch in the trash would be a sin.
82nd bottle tastes like sweet potatoes mixed with copper.
83rd bottle drowns his brain in vegetable broth.
84th bottle imagines his momma twiddling a fork through her collard greens, wondering how she could have ever created something so sickly.
85th bottle and his fans’ fists become beacons for LIGHTNING and shout, Thunder… PUNCH! From the crowd, his son approaches with sunglasses and open hands.
86th bottle kneels to hand a bottle to his son. Swear to me on your momma about something. One ThunderPunch a week, and I bet not catch you drinking without me. It’s dangerous to have a son shine brighter than his father. The way his son’s new $499.99 (before tax) O.Khalil’s flash at the sole makes Germ jealous. One day, Germ will buy something his son can cherish rather than consume. But his son sends the first ever nod that says, Yes, I hear you. I love you and I trust you, and Germ thinks buying this bottle for him isn’t so bad afterall. Germ fistbumps his son, then absorbs him into an embrace, careful no LIQUID FUNK infects his new kicks.
87th bottle listens to his son’s imagination run wild. Today me and my friends at lunch were coming up with a bunch of superhero names for you, like Black Lightning, but that sounded kinda corny, so we thought Hoodman, or Sunny G, but we just decided on ThunderPunch because that’s what you drink! And every flavor give you different powers like like like LIGHTNING makes you go real fast and ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY gives you laser eyes and you get a huuuuge galaxy brain from SLUSH WAVE not the bad kind the smart kind but then CHERRY BOMB—something splashes Germ’s right cheek, warm with a weird odor. He looks down to find his sleeveless shirt drenched. A woman stands in the street with two empty cups in her hand, an animated billboard hung over her chest that thunders, END THE LIGHTNING. A lick of his pinky informs Germ that this isn’t LIGHTNING, juice, nor water. A glance at his son’s $499.99 (before tax) O.Khalil’s and it, too, is soaked in a wrong kind of yellow. These motherfuckers, she screams at the traffic, these motherfuckers are killing the jellyfish and fireflies and mushrooms and algae. Stop supporting ThunderPunch and end the LIGHTNING. Now!
88th bottle doesn’t get what that white woman was tripping on. The cornerstore props their bulbous head atop the cash register, eyelids channeling between pleasure and pain. Germ. Have you. Ever. Watched. Animal Planet? Photocytes. She. Was. Talking. About. Photocytes. Right. the photocytes, those itty bitty cells from those animals that lend him their light. The cornerstore’s irises begin to fade. Closing. Time. Germ didn’t even get to the part where the white woman was dishing out cups filled with piss like she was a lemonade stand. How the authorities chased that white woman off the premises as she continued to scream for the sanctity of animals, then cooled off with their own bottles. How his son cried over his stained $499.99 (before tax) O.Khalil’s. The cornerstore opens their mouth, pukes a buttery mixture onto the floor, then sinks further into themselves.
89th bottle watches the ambulance, in their own tumultuous colors, wheel the cornerstore out in a gurney. Maybe it was the Punch, maybe a poor diet. It’s not really our responsibility to moderate habits. But look at you! Can you sign my Punch? The ambulance tosses on sunglasses and asks for a picture of Germ. The ambulance hands him a card with the words THUNDER phasing in and PUNCH phasing out. A phone number emerges when Germ holds it still.
90th bottle notices a strange ghoul above his bathroom sink. A highway of lights runs deep through his collarbone, routed to his chin. Forearms swell like the inner mechanizations of soda machines. Every light path ends at his eyes, pupils radiated in lime. Most teeth have gone dark, gums hardened charcoal. The strip club was right, he does have a jack-o’-lantern smile.
91st bottle hums along in the shower when, come to think of it, that white woman was right. Germ can feel the jellyfish, the fireflies, the mushrooms, the algae swimming through his blood. Germ is honored to be a part of their family.
92nd bottle nearly chokes Germ to death at the breaking news. A body near a closed mom-and-pop shop grocery shop has been found.
93rd bottle cackles maniacally in bed. His upper lip grazes at the film label and bites at the pumpkin’s high cheeks. Shut up, Germ whispers in bed. Shut the fuck up.
94th bottle thinks of that obligatory episode from those sitcoms he and his baby momma used to watch together, the one where the protagonist wishes they were never born, and their guardian angel drives by, says, Word? then snaps their fingers, does a twirl, or recites a rhyme, and the wish comes true, only to discover a world better without the protagonist’s burdens. All except that one thing, that one discrepancy that motivates the protagonist to endure the pain of remaining a living, functioning member of society. Germ contemplates that one discrepancy and concludes—
95th bottle is worth more than him. If Germ were to die without this bottle in his hands, nothing would change. Germ is insignificant. Irrelevant. Unimportant. Can’t Germ just hate himself and have the utmost love for the world? Is it a sin for Germ to be a tool, a source of entertainment, an inspiration? His fingers, desperate to curl into the ambulance's card, feel robotic as he fumbles over the number pad. He makes a call. Hey. It’s been a bit. Can we talk for a minute? Another nigga died and I thought of my girl—ok, my bad, ex-girl. No, I don’t think that’s funny. No, don’t hang up, please. What if that body was me? Miesha, Miesha, please. I just want one thing that wants me alive.
96th bottle bends every light in the Cheesecake Factory. Cheesecake and pasta fills his nostrils. A table for three, he tells the waiter. A family of six takes one look at Germ then asks for the check. A young couple walks in, sees Germ, then leaves. His baby momma arrives in a sequin maxi dress sparkling like a bottle of unopened JELLYLISHIS JAM. Germ licks his lips, straightens his tie and listens to the music his baby momma’s high heels makes on the chiseled flooring. She sees Germ and panics, asking how he expects her to sit across from him. Germ chuckles. Our son loves it. Speaking of, where is he? His baby momma shakes her head. Nigga, please. He didn’t want to come. He told me about how you just stood there and let that white bitch piss on him. Give it some time. You’ll learn to love this stuff, too. Back up, Germ. I know. It’s my smile. No, it’s everything. You smell like cheese and onions and you look like an atomic bomb about to kill everybody in here. Kill. Germ didn’t want to kill anyone. What? Germ asks if she would still love him as a bottle of ThunderPunch. Nigga, what the fuck are you talking about? but his baby momma gets it, then dials back her tone. Germ. Love isn’t a light switch. I can’t just turn it on and off. I wasted years of my life trying to fix you, years realizing I’m not the one. I love you, but that doesn’t make me your savior. We have a son to love, but you can’t even do that if you don’t take care of yourself. The Cheesecake Factory arrives, disgusted at the anomalous LIGHTNING radiating at their table. We’re sorry, sir, but no food or drink outside our served brands are welcome here. Germ wipes the snot dripping from his nose, pushes away from the table and leaves, dreading the long walk back home.
97th bottle teaches him a valuable lesson. To be both small and significant simultaneously must be its own superpower.
98th bottle upon confession. First sip of ThunderPunch, I fucking hated it, but that’s ‘cause the photocytes ain’t hit my brain yet. Ohhh but when it did, I felt that shit! My brain on overtime, acid and biomatter evolving me into a walking thunderstorm. Look at me! Now I love to tilt my head and fill my throat with SLUSH WAVE, ROCK ‘N RASPBERRY, JELLYLISHIS JAM, CHERRY BOMB, JACK-’O-LANTERN, LIQUID FUNK, the original gangsta LIGHTNING and let ThunderPunch do gymnastics in my stomach. But like all things good, it wasn’t enough. So I improvised. Thus my perfect blend, GERMINATOR, was born. Cut! Germ receives ThunderPunch’s approval and offers him a reward: a bottle of GLITTER POP. Germ snatches it from ThunderPunch’s crate of flavors and HIIH0’s lavender-pepto-bismol-bubble-gum-melted-down flavor floods Germ’s eager taste buds, just as predicted.
99th bottle is a star only the best cameras can capture. He stands at attention on an empty kitchen table when a shadow hives from above. A clay aura tickles this bottle’s skin, and he clasps his hands above his head and tucks in his stomach, undergoing a righteous transformation into liquid melanin packed in plastic. A thick dark hand enters the frame, squeezes his waist, picks him up, and uncorks his scalp. It’s been such a while since he’s gotten a punch from ThunderPunch, and he is being directed to shove this bottle into his mouth and chug until there is no more of himself left. Time! Three seconds. A wet belch conjures from the pits of his belly and wipes brown slime from his moist lips. A train of light outlines his throat. He tastes so good that he must hug himself, vibrating as if he’s gotten the bubble guts, then explodes into fireworks. 99th bottle looks at the camera, careful not to show his jack-o’-lantern smile. Mmm, mmm! Can you handle ThunderPunch’s newest flavor: GERMINATOR? It’s deliciously nasteh!
When Isaiah isn’t studying Pan-African history or obsessing over 90s and Y2K culture, he is teaching Fiction Writing and Afrofuturism at John Carroll University as a Hopkins Fellow. He is currently working on a collection of linked stories that focuses on the entertainment industry, commercialism, Black cyberculture, and R&B, along with a companion novel set in a near-future Cleveland. He received his MFA from Northeast Ohio Masters of Fine Arts in ‘22, is one of the recipients of the Ohio Arts Council Award for Fiction in ‘24 and is a Clarion West ‘24 alumni. You can find his stories in Obsidian Lit, Earth 2100 Anthology, NUNUM, Catchwater Magazine, forthcoming on NeoSolarZine, and elsewhere. You can find them all through his instagram bio: @Casual.dream.