Chapter 67: Junk Food

Henry gathered ingredients including cream lettuce, kale, beef tomatoes, and heated up a block of premium Parmesan cheese. Finally, he took out a white loaf as large as an open palm and sliced it cleanly in half horizontally.

Watching this setup, Old Black wore a constipated expression and said, "No no no no! What are you doing with these things? This can't be what I think it is."

"Aha, you guessed what I'm planning."

"You're insulting these ingredients!" Old Black complained, but he made no move to stop him.

Henry smiled and said, "Look, I've got a steak, three-color vegetables, cheese, and bread. Anyone seeing this would think it's a nutritionally balanced meal."

Old Black hesitated briefly, lips slightly parted, then grudgingly said, "Yes, that's true."

He neatly stacked the prepared ingredients together, sandwiching them between the two halves of bread to form a burger.

Henry held up the burger and grinned, "But why, when you stack these ingredients together, do people suddenly call it junk food?"

He desperately wanted to argue, but Old Black couldn't find a foothold. He could only stew in silence, face twisted in sour discomfort.

In fact, he was also wondering whether this could truly count as a dish.

For the rich, fine dining isn't just about taste—it's often about spectacle: the realm of "I have what others don't, and what they have, I do better."

Don't serve this dish often, but as a substitute option or a novelty item, this ultra-premium burger is flawless in every way.

Ignoring Old Black, who was still deep in thought, Henry placed his freshly made jumbo burger on a white porcelain plate and sat down in the dining area.

He didn't pick up knife or fork—this was meant to be eaten by hand, only then did it have its true flavor. But before taking a bite, he felt something was missing.

Looking at the solitary burger, should he add cola and fries too?

Ah! Fries could be skipped, but without Happy Water, how could this be complete? It was like watching a movie without sound—half the joy vanished.

So Henry returned to the bar, pulled a can of Coca-Cola from the refrigerator. Though Pepsi, Fanta, and others were available, at a moment like this, only Coca-Cola—the most potent sperm-killer—was the right choice.

Seeing Old Black's disgusted look, Henry shrugged and lightly shook the can. "Without this, it feels like something's missing. Just like pairing French cuisine with red or white wine—a proper drink elevates the entire meal."

Old Black sneered, "Coca-Cola compared to red wine? That's the single biggest reason burgers are called junk food—no exceptions!"

Carbonated drinks aren't addictive, and their harm doesn't manifest immediately.

But to claim they're good enough to drink three meals a day? Anyone bold enough to try will end up writhing from diabetes, gout, and worse.

But Henry's Kryptonian physiology didn't care. If his body had any ailment, he'd just fly up into the sun—every pain and discomfort vanished instantly.

This method had never failed him. He'd yet to encounter a problem it couldn't solve.

Before he could return to his seat, Henry saw his meticulously crafted jumbo burger being held in someone else's hands—and already half gone.

From the man's blissful chewing expression, there was no doubt: this wasn't some dog that stole it.

Henry exploded with classic American profanity: "Motherfucker! Where the hell did you come from? You just grab food and shove it in your mouth? Don't you fear I smeared some guy glue on it and watched you happily swallow it down?"

"Fuck." The burger-eater cursed, then pulled away from the food. But he couldn't help leaning back in, sniffing deeply, and said:

"I haven't tasted that thing, but I've smelled it. I'm certain there's rosemary in it—but no gardenia. So I know you're just trying to gross me out."

With that, he raised the burger in both hands, locked eyes with Henry, and took a massive, vicious bite. Then he made a lewd, ecstatic expression—purely to infuriate the man before him.

Henry exploded exactly as intended. He stomped his feet and yelled, "Fuck! Fuck! That was my lunch!"

"Hmm, tastes pretty good," said the arrogant young man, licking his fingers clean of meat juice, wearing a face that begged for a punch.

Henry's Kryptonian fist, rarely itchy, now burned with need. They say killing parents is unforgivable—but stealing someone's food? Even worse!

Always, Henry had hidden his emotions under a principle of sleazy self-preservation, fearing loss of control and exposure of his powers.

He never imagined today would meet a young man who shattered his composure. Not just wanting to beat him—his mind fantasized about tearing him apart and eating him raw.

But Henry still held back his utmost restraint, squinting at the young man: "You're not part of the production crew. I've never seen you here before."

At that, Henry remembered seeing this young man before. "... Caltech student? The one who was with that idiot who asked that stupid question? So this is the caliber of students from world-famous universities?"

Henry's question didn't trigger any memory in the young man. He just ate the burger indifferently, occasionally dipping the stretchy melted cheese into his mouth, then pulling it back onto the burger.

"Stalking celebrities to the set? That's inappropriate. Even if you're from a top university, I can call security and have you tossed out in seconds. If you don't want your ass kicked, cooperate now."

"You don't know who I am?"

The young man blurted this with such naive stupidity, it was like lighting a fuse on Henry's explosive temper.

Henry roared, "Bullshit! Eat my big dick! Do you look like a green Franklin? Does everyone in the world need to know you?"

The young man, never so humiliated, froze. Even his burger lost its flavor. He stared, dumbfounded, then began spitting curses right back.

"I may not look like that bald Franklin, but I've got enough Franklins—tons of them. Enough to crush you into paste. Now do you understand my power?"

"Ha, that's your attack?" Henry sneered. "So what if you've got more Franklins? Will you give me any? —"

The young man nodded naturally.

"—I figured. Since you won't give me any, it's none of my business. Why should I kiss your ass? What benefit do I get? Did I drink too much fake wine and mistake you for a sugar daddy?"

(End of Chapter)