And my minestrone smells like vengeance.
For centuries my sisters and brothers remained in the shadows with only the faint aroma of lentils to suggest we exist. Now, the American president has brought our clandestine organization into the light of day and we have only one thing to say to those who abuse their power, ‘Vengeance is best served straight from the can.’
I am a man with no name, taken from my parents when I was a baby and indoctrinated into the Ancient Order of Soupeteurs. I am justice. I am retribution. I am spicy Asian chicken noodle and you will never know I am there until my can meets your chest.
We spend years honing our art, practicing our soup hurling each day until our arms go numb. We recover in pools of frozen peas and awaken the next morning ready to train again, after a small bowl of French onion.
By the time we’re eighteen, a soupeteur can hurl a can of soup like a brick. We can bend our throws around corners and we can jump shot a can of white bean and ham through a car’s open sunroof from sixty-feet. A master soupeteur knows precisely how to adjust one’s grip from soba noodle to tomato basil when taking aim. We never miss.
We do not choose our targets. The head of our order spends every day interpreting a bowl of alphabet soup, and from that jumble of letters, the universe sends us a name – the name of the person who must be souped.
In olden days, we brandished clay pots, but as the world changed, we adapted. When cans became available, we adjusted our throws. When Walmart and Costco arrived, we trained legions of soupeteurs to buy in bulk. We’re always there, waiting with soup in hand.
We are masters of disguise. We look like any American, carrying soup home to our family in eco-friendly bags. With no one suspecting me, my can hits, chaos erupts, and I vanish into the frantic crowd.
We’ve infiltrated your news outlets. We’ve filled your media companies with our numbers. They turn their heads when the cream of mushroom flies by, ignoring the soupetage that balances the scales of equality one can at a time.
Yesterday, the world realized we exist, but that matters not. If you are the oppressors who view the world as your personal feeding trough, know you’ll never be safe. We are your friends, your neighbors, your colleagues. You’ve probably eaten soup in our homes or tasted our soup at your office potluck. We are the secret that is everywhere, never more than a soup’s throw away.
The soup d’état has commenced.
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, Consommé