Pizza, Pizza.

Little Caesar's toga is soaked through with sweat, he's searching for the right words. He can't find them. "Pizza, pizza!" he finally blurts out, his eyes wild.

"We no pizza," the man behind the counter says again, rolling his eyes. Little Caesar tears the laurel wreath off his head and bangs it on the counter. "Pizza! PIZZA!" he screams, desperately. The man gestures to his son, who grabs Little Caesar from behind. "Calm down," the son says. "PIZZA! PIZZA! PIZZA!" "Calm. Down." The man behind the counter is calling the police.

Out in the car, Little Caesar's wife is already dead, asphyxiated on her own tongue, foam rolling down her chin.