Look at that seascape. The fresh air, an ocean breeze, the cool shade of a food stall. Nothing better than a hot slice fresh out of a sweltering pizza oven on a boiling summer day. The Pizzeria might be small, it might be an open-air restaurant next to the wind-swept beach, it might be prone to aerial attack by low flying scavenger birds. Is the lone patron waving down the cook/waiter/avian security guard to request seconds? Or is she fending off vicious, yet unsuccessful, attempts by local crows to steal her delicious lunch?
Regardless, you know the citizens of this Town lose their minds when the Pizzeria delivery truck rolls up, the gentle sounds of Motӧrhead or Minor Threat drifting from the doorless truck, the delivery dude hefting dinner towards the exhausted and hungry.
Something’s wrong with this scene, though. You are having trouble isolating it, the August heat having roasted your brains to the inside of your head. It’s the same delivery guy, the same friendly smile you’ve come to expect, but there’s something not right with this delivery. And then it hits you. There’s green peppers on those pizzas. But wait, that was what you ordered. No, it’s something much more disconcerting.
And then it hits you, again. Like a LEGO camera coming into focus. Like a two by four brick dropped on your head. What kind of 152 brick pizza place is this? Are they even a licensed food seller? Is this even pizza? Because even in the sleepy vale of LEGO Town fresh pizza should be delivered in a box, not tossed in the back of a van like a plumber’s toolbox or a body in a burlap sack.
Still, you eat the pizza. The day’s been so long, the sun so intense, your hunger so fierce. Although your dinner is coated in a veneer of fine sand and has been mingling with a bin of work gloves and road pylons it doesn’t matter. The mustachioed artist that runs the Pizzeria has prepared yet another masterpiece. He is a virtuoso, a dough prodigy. You have just eaten a modern work of genius.