Good Omens

vegetable oils; fibrous materials, colorings, and flavorings. The end result was a foodstuff almost indistinguishable from any other except for two things. Firstly, the price, which was slightly higher, and secondly the nutritional content, which was roughly equivalent to that of a Sony Walkman. It didn’t matter how much you ate, you lost weight. 24
    Fat people had bought it. Thin people who didn’t want to get fat had bought it. CHOW™ was the ultimate diet food—carefully spun, woven, textured, and pounded to imitate anything, from potatoes to venison, although the chicken sold best.
    Sable sat back and watched the money roll in. He watched CHOW™ gradually fill the ecological niche that used to be filled by the old, untrademarked food.
    He followed CHOW™ with SNACKS™—junk food made from real junk.
    MEALS™ was Sable’s latest brainwave.
    MEALS™ was CHOW™ with added sugar and fat. The theory was that if you ate enough MEALS™ you would a) get very fat, and b) die of malnutrition.
    The paradox delighted Sable.
    MEALS™ were currently being tested all over America. Pizza MEALS, Fish MEALS, Szechuan MEALS, macrobiotic rice MEALS. Even Hamburger MEALS.
    Sable’s limousine was parked in the lot of a Des Moines, Iowa, Burger Lord—a fast food franchise wholly owned by his organization. It was here they’d been piloting Hamburger MEALS for the last six months. He wanted to see what kind of results they’d been getting.
    He leaned forward, tapped the chauffeur’s glass partition. The chauffeur pressed a switch, and the glass slid open.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œI’m going to take a look at our operation, Marlon. I’ll be ten minutes. Then back to L.A.”
    â€œSir.”
    Sable sauntered into the Burger Lord. It was exactly like every other Burger Lord in America. 25 McLordy the Clown danced in the Kiddie Korner. The serving staff had identical gleaming smiles that never reached their eyes. And behind the counter a chubby, middle-aged man in a Burger Lord uniform slapped burgers onto the griddle, whistling softly, happy in his work.
    Sable went up to the counter.
    â€œHello-my-name-is-Marie,” said the girl behind the counter. “How-can-I-help-you?”
    â€œA double blaster thunder biggun, extra fries, hold the mustard,” he said.
    â€œAnything-to-drink?”
    â€œA special thick whippy chocobanana shake.”
    She pressed the little pictogram squares on her till. (Literacy was no longer a requirement for employment in these restaurants. Smiling was.) Then she turned to the chubby man behind the counter.
    â€œDBTB, E F, hold mustard,” she said. “Choc-shake.”
    â€œUhnnhuhn,” crooned the cook. He sorted the food into little paper containers, pausing only to brush the graying cowlick from his eyes.
    â€œHere y’are,” he said.
    She took them without looking at him, and he returned cheerfully to his griddle, singing quietly, “Loooove me tender, looooove me long, neeever let me go … ”
    The man’s humming, Sable noted, clashed with the Burger Lord background music, a tinny tape loop of the Burger Lord commercial jingle, and he made a mental note to have him fired.
    Hello-my-name-is-Marie gave Sable his MEAL™ and told him to have a nice day.
    He found a small plastic table, sat down in the plastic seat, and examined his food.
    Artificial bread roll. Artificial burger. Fries that had never even seen potatoes. Foodless sauces. Even (and Sable was especially pleased with this) an artificial slice of dill pickle. He didn’t bother to examine his milkshake. It had no actual food content, but then again, neither did those sold by any of his rivals.
    All around him people were eating their unfood with, if not actual evidence of enjoyment, then with no more actual disgust than was to be found in burger chains all over the planet.
    He stood up, took his tray over to the please dispose of your refuse with care receptacle, and dumped the whole thing. If you had told him that there were children starving in Africa he would have been flattered that you’d noticed.
    There was a tug at his sleeve. “Party name of Sable?” asked a small, bespectacled man in an International Express cap, holding a brown paper parcel.
    Sable nodded.
    â€œThought it was you. Looked around, thought, tall gent with a beard, nice suit, can’t be that many of them here.