“I'm starting to think that happiness is for children.” - Big Ian Salt, the day before Father's Day 2026 There is a grave with a stone in a field by a tire-swing and it used to be well-maintained, but look at it now. Fake flowers sit in vases that besiege each side of the stone, the dye of their petals lost, now just ugly paper. The stone reads, “Elvis Pepper. 1954-2025. Dear Husband. Adored Father.” Those in the family new which parts of the stone were true and which weren't. But it hardly mattered. What mattered was remembering him better than he was. To honor him as the ideal that he, at times, met.

Honor.

It was a concept that Big Ian Salt had all but abandoned.

In fact, he had dismissed concepts entirely.

How can one embrace any concept when they have no fucking clue who they really are anymore?

“I have no earthly idea,” Big Ian answered his own question, sitting criss-cross applesauce in front of the grave.

“This will be my first father's day without you,” Big Ian said. “There have been many rumors about you. About us. Some people even say you're the real Doctor Pepper, silly as that sounds. There are all kinds of rumors, Dad. About the way you left Mom…”

Ian chuckled through the pain-remembrance. “That first night you were gone from mom's fucked me up considerably. You said you'd be back for me, but I didn't know. All I knew was my Daddy was leaving and he was crying and my mom was crying and no matter how much I begged you to stay, you'd just say, ‘I wish I could boy, but I can't. I just can't.’ And then you left. But you never left me. Didn't even consider it. And I have no idea why because you didn't have to. You could've abandoned me just like you did her.”

But he didn't.

A deep inhale, “Thanks to you, I learned things a lot of my friends didn't. I learned that I'm loveable, and that I am capable of love. I learned that I can do anything if I work hard enough at it. I learned to believe in my own capabilities. I learned that asking for help is alright, just so long as I tried it on my own first.”

There weren't any tears in Salt's eyes because those had poured out before he even got there. When he was Big John Pepper, those tears would've formed a new riverspan that would have confused the satellite cartographers orbiting the planet in sheets. But now that he wasn't what he'd always been, the tears were different too. Weaker. The satellites picked up no new anomalies.

As though the tears were ashamed to exist, they dried upon his cheeks. There, you could see the rivers, sun dried across the hardpan of his skin.

“I don't know how to honor you,” he confessed. “I don't know how.”

Further, “But I really, really want to, Dad. I'd do just about anything to hear you say you were proud of me one more time.”

👨‍🍼 🍔 ❤️‍🩹

Pre-Internet Days

Elvis Pepper's grill sat outside his mother's house, the place he fled to when he left his wife. His mother, Pauline Pepper, was a sweetheart who couldn't have told her son “no” even if she tried. Truth was, she loved him deeply, and if he needed a place to stay he always had a bedroom.

When Elvis’ son, John, came over every other weekend, or for summer break, they didn't have another bed for him. He had to share a bed with his dad. But for John, that was no issue at all. When he could see his father, he felt safe.

John never had a nightmare in those days.

Because his dad was always right there.

Usually, when John awoke he did so first. He'd wake up and quietly get out of bed while Elvis sawed logs with his nose, then he'd walk out into the living room where Pauline would be watching public access television. They'd see some Mr. Rogers before John would go outside to play.

This morning, however, was different.

John awoke in the bed and felt a sudden confusion. He expected his father to be there, and he wasn't. A bad case of separation anxiety immediately besieged his mentality. Panic began with a shake in his hands that spread to his spine, or maybe vice versa. Either way he stood on the bed before he leapt off it, and rushed out the bedroom door.

There were worried tears in his eyes by the time he reached the living room, his lip quivering as he stared at his grandma.

“Baby boy,” she said, turning her attention from the Texas Public Access News. “What's wrong?”

“Where's my dad!?” He said through terrified tears.

She giggled and reached out from her seated position on the couch and pulled him into a hug.

“Listen to me baby. Your daddy ain't gone nowhere, okay? He's outside on the grill.”

John suddenly remembered what his father had told him yesterday.

Today was Hamburger Day.

An extraordinarily special day in the Pepper house.

He used his grandma's shoulder to dry his tears, just as he had done so many times before.

“Baby your daddy loves you.”

“I'm sorry,” John said.

“Ain't nothin' to be sorry about. But I promise you — with my whole heart — your daddy will never leave you behind. Okay?”

Feeling better, he nodded with his face buried in her sleeve. She kissed him on top of his head, and he ran towards the door to the carport.

Every kid on planet earth who is fortunate enough to have a good dad has something that they are extremely proud of towards them. Some kids, it's their dad's job, or their dad's strength, or maybe even their dad's car. For John, it was his dad's hamburgers.

They were moist. Flavorful. A blend of spices that could only be concocted by a man who held a keen interest in his son's specific taste buds and applied that knowledge liberally to please them. John had never tasted a hamburger as good as his dad's. He figured he never would in his life.

“Good mornin’ boy,” Elvis greeted his sleepy-eyed son as John stepped outside, shielding his eyes from the sun with squints and a hand over his forehead.

Elvis didn't remark on it very often, but he couldn't help but notice on a daily basis just how quickly his son was growing.

“Mornin’ dad,” John said, approaching his father at the grill.

“Hamburger day,” Elvis said, gesturing towards the raw meat patties he had sitting on a tray while the grill was firing up.

“Best day of the week!” John replied.

He'd watch as his dad spiced up the raw patties. Salt, pepper, and some other ingredients that John couldn't identify due to his age and lack of curiosity. The process of crafting the hamburgers was not John's interest in that period of his development. It was his dad. The way he held the spatula. The way he cussed with a laugh when the grease popped and splattered on his wrist, burning it slightly. The way he roughed up John's hair before telling him to run inside and grab some paper plates. The way his back was so extraordinarily upright as he manned his station.

It was the closest thing to praise and worship that John had ever done, watching his father do what he loved.

At that age, John had never even considered what it would feel like when God died.

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I hate you, Steve.

I hate you in ways I have rarely hated anyone. It's strange to say I loathe a… completely harmless human being, and yet, here I go, being strange. 

I'd love to say it has to do with the rumors of me fucking Dusk's daughter all over the United States of America, which you and your friends were discussing backstage, and the subsequent argument that started all this.

But that doesn't have anything to do with it.

Truth is, I was looking for a reason to fuck you up, anyway, Steve. From the day I set my eyes on your puny, mostly-inflexible body, I wanted to hurt you.

And the Peppery part of me is sorry for that.

The Salty part, far less so.

The reason is tough for me to give words to, frankly.

It has nothing to do with the fact that you're a mark, which you are.

It has nothing to do with the fact that you're an out-of-shape loser, which you are.

It has nothing to do with the fact that you are a certified jobber who suddenly believes that you stand a chance in the ring with me, which you don't.

And even though American Gladiators is a work, and a suck-ass television show, it has nothing to do with that, either.

So why do I want to beat the fuck out of you until your bones have been crushed such that I've processed you into McDonald's pink sludge meat?

Honestly, Steve? It'd be easier to just show you.

👨‍🍼 🍔 ❤️‍🩹

January 28th, 2026.

Fred Dick and Big John Pepper were on the road again, heading back towards PRIME activities after a week at the Dick family compound in a seafoam green Range Rover.

“MEXICOOOOO!!!” Big John Pepper shouted, celebrating as their vehicle was cleared by border patrol and crossed the Texas border into the proud nation of Pancho Villa, Diego Rivera, and Salma Hayek.

“It's pronounced ‘Meh-hico,’” Fred Dick of all people corrected him.

“I'm starving!” Big John shouted. At this time, you must remember, this world was all very new for Big John. Living life as a normal man, doing normal man things. It was still a novel experience and every bit of mundanity was shout-worthy.

“Well heyell,” Fred replied. “I'ma be honest wijja, Big John Pepper. You don't wanna trust border food. Hence why I had a mike-or-wave installed in da glove box. Reach in the back seat and fetch dat bag of hamburger sammiches.”

Big John did what he always did back then, which was follow Fred's instructions to the letter.

The paper bag in John's hand was like any other fast food bad. Brown, branded “LeMoo's” written in signature, recognizable fonts.

“Yeah,” Fred said. “Say what yew will about dat lil pussy foo foo's rasslin’ ackyamen, but damn if he ain't made the best fuckin’ burger I ever tasted in my life.”

“Oh man,” Big John said. “I wish you could've met my dad. He made the best hamburgers ever.”

“Yeah?” Fred asked. “Big Hamburger guy, ya pappy?”

“The biggest,” Big John replied.

“Well, pop a couple of deez bad benches in dat mike-or-wave and tell me how it measures up, den.”

He did as he was told, opening the glove box, then the microwave door and placing the unwrapped hamburgers on the rotating disk inside.

John pressed the “Add :30” button twice, then the start button.

As they rotated around a radiation storm that hummed from the microwave, a feint aroma began to fill the range rover.

“Oh yeah, that's it. God, dem spices. You shmell em, Big John? You shmell dem spices? I tell ya whut man, the shmell alone would make my dick harder n’ heyell if I still had it.”

John was actually trying to ignore the aroma. It was like a spell, transporting him back to a time that was so wonderful that it now hurt to remember.

“You don't have a wiener, Fred?” Big John asked.

“Oh, nobody tolja bout dat? Yeah. Ol’ Fred might’ve got a lil carried away. That's the rasslin’ business fer ya. That's the reason I retired, to be honest. Not the dick in and of itself, but, I'd tend to take things way too far and then I'd hate myself and then I'd wanna do things to myself that made me feel sad… so… yeah… I don't rassle no more.”

Ding.

“Mmmmmmm-MMM!!!” Fred shouted with delight. Big John opened the microwave, gave one of the burgers to Fred and kept one himself.

“Lets crush deez burgs,” Fred said, scarfing it down with his other hand on the wheel.

Big John took a bite and his eyes welled up and it was very important that he did not flood the car with his tears so he took the burger and placed it back in the microwave and shut the door and closed the glove box and folded his hands across his chest and breathed deeply because his heart was palpitating and his blood pressure was rising because the one thing that he never thought would happen again in his life just happened and that's enough to turn a regular paragraph like this into a run on sentence because god damn, Big John was in a full blown panic that he could barely keep contained within him.

He couldn't believe it.

“Whatcha thank?” Fred said, wiggling his eyebrows enthusiastically, not even noticing that Big John had already put the hamburger away and was sweating profusely.

Big John didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to say it. Didn't WANT to say it. So finally, he compromised with himself, and said it without saying it.

“It tastes like a ghost.”

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“Anybody who doesn’t at least have some rough edges is being unreal – they’re bullshitting themselves and they’re bullshitting you too.” - Oli Anderson How the hell did you do it, Lemieux?

How the hell did you make a better hamburger than my dad?

I have eaten hamburgers all over the world. From bullshit fast food to gourmet sandwiches. No one has come close to my father's hamburgers in quality or taste.

…and yet you blew him out of the water.

This is something that my father wouldn't care about. He didn't take the same pride in his hamburgers as I did. He just loved making them. But me? I loved him. And now he's gone. And now I can never eat one of his hamburgers again. And now I've tasted one that's even better. 

Crafted in your kitchen.

The pain your sandwich caused me is something I couldn't duplicate in a match with you no matter how badly I beat you.

Nothing can fix this.

Because objectively speaking, my dad is no longer #1.

And the absolute worst part of it all?

It was better from the microwave.

The fucking microwave, Steve, you god damn bitch ass hamburger genius.

I am so impressed with you, you know that?

And it makes me so fucking mad.

It makes me mad because I don't think you deserve to be as good as you are at what you do best.

You definitely don't deserve to be better than my dad.

Because my dad was an honest man.

And you couldn't possibly be.

Every one on planet earth has a rough edge, somewhere. No one is as genuine and pure as you make yourself out to be.

So since you exposed to me that my father is not the greatest hamburger cook who ever lived?

I'm going to expose that, somewhere inside you, there is a rough edge.

And it's dull but in a way that's almost more dangerous. Rusted. Unhoned. 

I want to expose that rust to the air and rust it further.

I want to expose that edge to PRIME so they see that you aren't merely some nerd who found himself in a fucked up coincidence that he can't survive.

I want you to show it to me.

I want you to cut me with it.

I want you to make me bleed.

Because then…

Then, I can show you mine.

I can cut you with it.

I can make you bleed.

👨‍🍼 🍔 ❤️‍🩹

Big Ian stands from his sat position in front of his father's grave and wipes the salty tears away from the gutters of his eyes.

“Dad, I miss you… I'm gonna be missing you for the rest of my life.”

He turns and walks away. The only reason he doesn't look back is because doing so would kill him dead.

There's pain you can manage and pain you can't.

Events you can deal with, and events you can never deal with no matter when they happened.

The worst part of it all was Big Ian Salt had no one to confide in.

The brand new Mercedes GLS sits parked on a narrow one way path that cuts respectfully through the graveyard.

He swings the driver-side door open, sits down, and slams it shut.

Closes his eyes.

He squints them really hard. Formidable dams.

His phone sits in the passengers seat. He clicks the power button on the side.

Two missed calls.

One new voicemail.

His heart pounds as he presses the button to hear his voicemail.

You have ONE new message.

FIRST new message.

Beep.

“Hey buddy… it's me… ol' Fred. I uh… listen. I know that you done struck off on your own and joined the bandits and changed your name and appurance and all dat bullshid. But I also know dey's some thangs a man can't change. And I know tomorrow is Father's Day.

“John. Ian. I don't care what you call yourself buddy. I just wantcha to know that if you need a safe place to cry it out, you come right on over and do it here. Won't be no cameras. Won't be no judgment.

“Besides. Property could use a little creek bed or somethin' anyways. So look. You wanna come? Come on. I love you. I always will. You're my hero and--.”

END of message.

To ERASE this message, press 1.

To SAVE, press 7.

Big Ian Salt presses 1.

And then Big John Pepper opens Waze on his phone.

“Are you driving to HOME?” It asked him.

He clicks “Yes.”

The app routes a course to the Dick Family Compound.

A peace emerges in his spirit as the app informs him he'll be there by the time the sun rose on Father's day morning. "There is probably no more terrible instant of enlightenment than the one in which you discover your father is a man—with human flesh." - Frank Herbert, Dune.