The transition didn’t happen overnight, but rather through a series of aggressively cheerful press releases from the Ministry of Wellness.
First, they found a micro-grain of sand in an artisanal sourdough loaf and declared the past “obsolete and dangerous”. Then came the Great Purge. Alcohol was rebranded as Brain-Cell Solvent. Carbs were Structural Inflammation Triggers. Salt was just Rock Poison.
By 2126, kitchens were already illegal.
Jon sat at his minimalist desk, staring at his lunch. It was a single, translucent cube of Nutri-Paste™ Compound 44, served in a bio-degradable, flavourless pod.
‘Happy Nourishment Period, Jon!’ chirped his coworker, Jen, from the next pod over. She was alabaster pale, a standard side effect of the new regime. She was happily vibrating from her morning intake of Sub-Lingual Mood Stabilizer B.
‘Happy Nourishment Period, Jen,’ he said, trying to summon enthusiasm for a cube that tasted entirely of wet cardboard and existential dread.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Jen sighed, popping a chalky white sphere into her mouth. ‘I remember watching a family video album, where my great-great-grandmother made something strange called “lasagna”. Layers of wheat, coagulated cow lactation, and crushed nightshades. Absolute madness. It’s a miracle anyone survived the 2020s. The sheer toxicity of a red tomato could have eliminated all life on this planet. Unacceptable!’
‘Quite,’ Jon muttered. He looked down at the ingredient list for his Compound 44: Monosodium Poly-Glyceride, Synthesized Ash, Texturized Air, and 0.05% Bio-Available Sadness.
It was 100% chemical perfection. No gluten to inflame the gut. No sugar to spike the blood. No fat to clog the tubes. No salt to strain the pump. It was a perfectly engineered, mathematically flawless fuel for a perfectly miserable existence.
The real trouble started at 3:00 PM.
Jon’s government-mandated biometric wristband began to beep frantically. A flashing red text appeared: WARNING: SODIUM DEFICIENCY DETECTED IMMEDIATE HAZARD
Jon panicked. If his sodium dropped too low, the automated health-drones would descend upon his cubicle and administer an emergency saline suppository. He scrambled through his drawers, searching for his authorized, state-issued Hydration-Enhancing Mineral Pellets. The box was empty.
‘Jen,’ he whispered, sweat breaking out on his forehead. ‘Do you have any Mineral Cubes? I’m crashing.’
Jen gasped, covering her mouth. ‘Jon! You know the rules. Sharing matter without a medical barcode is a felony!’
Desperate, Jon remembered a rumour he’d heard from the guy in IT, a guy who knew a guy who still had a grandmother living in the unmonitored sectors of the countryside. Jon slipped away from his desk, clutching his stomach, and ducked into the maintenance stairwell.
There, sitting in phono-isolated cubicles, were Don and Den from IT. Don looked around nervously, then pulled a small, crinkly, transparent bag from inside his synthetic jumpsuit. Inside the bag were small, yellow, ridged discs.
‘Are those…’ Jon breathed, his eyes widening.
‘Potato crisps,’ Don whispered, his voice trembling. ‘Found them in a sealed fallout shelter from 2024. They’re ancient. They’ve got it all, man. Saturated fat. Gluten. Refined carbohydrates. And…’ Don’s voice dropped to a terrified, ecstatic whisper. ‘Salt. Real, unrefined, ocean-mined Sodium Chloride.’
‘It’s a biohazard,’ Jon said, though his mouth was watering, a biological function he had never experienced before. ‘It’s a weapon of mass destruction.’
‘Take one,’ Don urged. ‘Before the sensors track the aroma.’
Jon’s wristband was beeping a death toll now: CRITICAL LEVEL CITIZEN COMPROMISED
With shaking fingers, Jon reached into the bag. He picked up a crisp. It felt greasy. It felt heavy. It felt dangerous. He placed it on his tongue and bit down. The crunch echoed in the concrete stairwell like a gunshot.
The explosion of flavour was catastrophic. His brain, starved of actual dopamine, violently short-circuited. He could taste the earth the potato grew in. He could taste the forbidden fire of the frying oil. And the salt. Oh, the glorious, stinging, life-giving salt. Tears streamed down his face. His biometric band suddenly lit up green, playing a triumphant digital fanfare. SODIUM LEVELS OPTIMAL VITALITY 200% WARNING: CITIZEN IS EXPERIENCING ILLEGAL LEVELS OF JOY
‘No way,’ Jon wept, wiping grease onto his pristine, white jumpsuit. ‘They threw it all away.’
‘I know,’ Don said grimly, taking a crisp for himself. ‘Now eat fast. The chemical-purification SWAT team is already tracking our endorphin spikes.’ And there, in the dark stairwell, the two rebels chewed furiously, defiantly rejecting the perfect future, one beautiful, toxic crunch at a time.
