It’s okay, bro. Let the kids live their fantasies while they still can. In the end, after life has chewed them up and spit them out on the curb, they will look up and through the rays of sunlight they will see a floating shining metal object: a spatula. Made of chrome and with a carbon fiber grip. And they will know it’s true.

They will grab the spatula and with a firm hand their eyes will fill with conviction and their bellies with hunger. They will walk. Slowly, but righteous. They will walk. Their feet hurting with every step as they lost their shoes many months ago. But they will walk.

The sun will burn their skin and water their eyes. But not even the very center of the sun is as hot as the flame they intend to ignite. For as they have arrived to their destiny. The grill.

Not just any grill. Their grill. The one created for them the very moment they were born, as the grill is every man’s destination. Their undeniable fate.

They will in turn put on their apron. Still pure white and untainted but ready to take on any stain and wear it proudly as battle scars. They will fill the grill with the charcoals carrying the souls of trees, which once carried the souls of the earth, which in turn carried the souls of the people buried within.

The grill is hungry, but not as hungry as them. And they will unite their glorious hunger in the holy ritual passed down the generations. Before they didn’t understood it, but now they do. Not through reason, but primal instinct.

The grill will be lit. It’s flames burning as beautiful and as bright as they can be. The animal flesh will be laid upon the grill and be kissed by the fire like two lovers reunited. The meat will bleed and then turn brown with black stripes where the metal has touched.

There is no clock and yet they will know when it is ready. And they will eat the bovine offering and they will cry and smile for they have accomplished what they were set to do.

And then they will know.