The Munchy Box

Ray and Lena stood behind Greg, looking over his shoulders. Greg took a deep breath, coinciding with Lena's little finger touching the bulging blue vein on the back of Ray's hand. Ray glanced over at Lena and she blew her fringe. Greg lifted the lid of the pizza box. Ray flinched and Lena did a hamster gasp. Greg didn't move. Ray stared, first at the doner meat, then at the naan bread, then at the chips. Ray's canyon-leaping eyes took in the two tubs of sauce, toxicity unknown. He spied a trace of salad, yellow and grey, beneath the huge pounding slab of naanplop. Greg lifted the doner meat with a fork, delicately as a pedal steel picker. He revealed a pile of pakora and a shove ha'penny formation of greasy onion rings, the batter a deep mahogany. So this was it - the munchy box from the multi-ethnic takeaway on Great Western Road. Ray and Lena telepathically moved apart and glided to their seats at the table, sci-fi silent. Greg sat staring at the food until Lena fired off the fizz of the Irn Bru bottle. Ray got up and fetched three plates.
“We're going to need some music to go with this,” said Greg. “Something really fucking heavy. Something to go with blocked arteries. A heavy heavy monster sound.” He got up and ricocheted into their room. Johnny Cash came on. Not an old Sun Records track, but something more elaborate and impossibly right-wing, portly growling about an old flag and how the hippy kids should respect it.
Greg tried to arrange the food on the plates to look like record labels. Sun was easy, the first rays of the new rising doner, Meteor was OK, a pakora star trailing clouds of doner, but the Shreveport Ram, using every ingredient, just looked like a horrible big pile of inedible crap. Greg slid it over to Ray with a mean and meaningful stare, very Man in Black.