October 7, 2016. (Guest Submission: Vincent Maslowski)

Holy spooks, the long-awaited conclusion to the critically acclaimed "Bologna Factory" epic. Grab a bucket.

--------EPILOGUE--------

"Once again, I am satisfied. Thankyou, Jeremy Georgia."
The bologna factory's smokestacks sparked and plumed with each spoken word.

Jeremy Georgia, formerly known as Steve, sulked upon a pile of bologna, disappointed that his story hadn't ended yet. Various whimpers could be heard from the forest. Jeremy's acid reflux started to act up.

Earlier in the factory, with Martha, during those moments of bologna intensity--- closing upon them with an embrace of intimate meatery, Jeremy remembered his true purpose.

His great-grandfather was lost within the foundations of the bologna factory long ago. The two have fused, and so it was up to Jeremy's grandfather, and then his own father, to maintain the Bologna Factory. To maintain its hunger. Family is important.
His father eventually strayed from the feeding routine and became one with the machine. Jeremy Georgia would not repeat that mistake. No sir. A steady flow of supple woman flesh fell easily into his arms over the years. Jeremy's trembling, sweat drenched form proved irresistible.

He fed Martha to the machine. Jammed her into the oven like socks in a drawer. Martha and her tasteful pink spandex thing. The Factory, as usual, was satisifed. They were very like-minded. Almost like parts of the same being, actually.

"Your form will not serve me for ever!" stated the Bologna Factory, "You must bear a child to continue this legacy of feeding! I shall assist you!"

Jeremy Georgia had little idea what Great-Grandfather Bologna was talking about. Nor did he really care. The after-effects of his self-hypnosis were still giving him conflicting thoughts.

'Why ever did father fuse with this machine?' he wondered. 'Where was mother during all of this? Actually, I'm not sure if I ever did meet her.'

Jeremy Georgia sat for a moment, picking at a hangnail on his left thumb, when he heard a squenching and a wet rumbling emanating from the factory just behind him.

Silence. And then something else.

A series a spongy, soft footsteps.

Getting closer.

Stopping just behind him.

Jeremy Georgia felt a warm, spice and lard scented hand gently fall upon his shoulder.

It was greasing up his denim jacket.

"My darling Jeremy Georgia," a woman's voice began, a slight hint of myrtle berries on her breath, "let's make babies or something."