The events of the first night transpired like so:

Once at home again, I wasted no time. I slipped my finger beneath a fold of cellophane and ripped the pickle loaf free, untwisted the bread, and unscrewed the plastic cap of the mayonnaise jar. I remember the whole process like a lithograph print--how, for instance, I had to search for a butter knife, finally locating one at the head of the stairs (I think I'd been using it to prop open the cellar door), and how I had to wash it off in the bathroom sink (The sink in the kitchen was inaccessible beneath my boxes of spray paint.) I was thorough. I made sure to scrub away all the coagulated jelly and wood dust, because, contrary to what you might expect, I'm a stickler for avoiding cross-contamination. 

Then I returned to the kitchen and set to work overspreading every centimeter of the bread, just the one slice. That's my technique--I spread my condiments on slice no. 1, and before I apply the lunchmeat, I adhere slice no. 1 to slice no. 2. This way, the condiment disseminates 60/40 between the crest and base of the sandwich. Then I wiped off the knife with a dish rag and cut a single slice from the butt of the pickle loaf, exposing its inner contents, a pink wall of foodstuff flecked with clods of red and green. Finally, I placed the portion on the wet surface of bread slice no. 1 and then capped it with slice no. 2, a complete pickle loaf sandwich, just like mom used to make. 

As soon as I finished it, I found myself confronted with an entirely new quandary. I stood at the counter, eyeing the pickle loaf sandwich as it sat inoffensively amidst all my discarded utensils and gizmos and appliances and appurtenances; and suddenly, I no longer desired it. Whatever whim possessed me before had evaporated. Now the thought of all that beef and pork permeated in salt and turmeric made me feel slightly nauseous. 

It was an absurd change in sentiment. I thought so even then. I wondered what sort of lunatic I was, that I should bet all my life on a square of lunch meat one minute and shove it away like a spoiled infant the next. I couldn't shake my sense of revulsion. I stared at the shaved end of the loaf, at the solid, pink insides, and I swear it began staring back at me. With its myriad of vegetable eyes. 

An unspeakable dread pulled at the base of my stomach, like that sensation in your entrails when you suddenly fall a great distance--descending in a plane or a roller coaster. Except, I was completely stationary (or as stationary as a creature can be on a spinning planet). A black hole opened somewhere, lightyears away, and reached for my bowels through space time, gave them a little tug. That's how the sensation felt. And I understood then that I was dealing with something truly malevolent. Madness boiling beyond sanctuary of human consciousness, now breaking in at the fringes. 

Still, I was determined, despite all my misgivings, to complete the task I had commenced. Before you classify me as a complete imbecile, let me explain my motivations. 

I was on the verge of accomplishing an extraordinary feat. (A visit to the supermarket might not seem like much to you, the reader, but to me, it felt like marching across the Sahara.) I had already expended two hours of my life and a good ten dollars, and I didn't want the time and the energy and the resources to go to waste. A man can't very well finish anything if he can't complete the simple procedure of shopping for, fixing, and consuming a pickle loaf sandwich. Or so I reasoned at the time.

So I swallowed all my apprehension and took a bite, a single nibble form the corner.

It brought on a wave of nausea so strong, I abandoned the counter, stumbled to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet for a half an hour before the onslaught  subsided. I've since wondered exactly what prompted my bout of illness. Then, I chalked it up to my frayed nervous system, anxiety manifested in an upset stomach; now I think I might've made a mistake seeking solace in nostalgia, a well of comfort under the right conditions; just be careful not to poison the well. 

Regardless, I didn't vomit, but I came close. I sat with my sweat pants around my ankles, clutching at my stomach, gasping, chuffing. Perhaps I even wept a little bit; trivial details like that elude me now. What mattered was I couldn't eat the pickle loaf sandwich. Of that I was certain. I couldn't let that ghastly specimen slither down my entrails and proliferate throughout my bowels. 

I stood up from the toilet, bent down, and hiked up my sweat pants. (Removing them had been useless, I realized in hindsight, and I only did so because it was and still is my ritual to touch the toilet seat with my bare bottom exclusively. There's nothing more irrational than habit.) Then I returned to the kitchen and mulled over how to dispose of my meal, a more complicated task than you might think. 

I'd run fresh out of trash bags, and besides, I was using my only wastebasket as a repository for used cable antenna components; and I couldn't perform what might seem the obvious solution--I couldn't toss the pickle loaf out the window and let it decompose in my yard, because moldering meat, even the processed kind, can attract scavengers, humans and those of the more bestial persuasion.

But an idea occurred to me then as I approached the pickle loaf, lying innocent on the counter, just as I left it. My adventure in the bathroom had reminded me that my domicile possessed two methods for eliminating waste, the second of which, while traditionally associated with disposing of digested food, was a viable option if no other avenue presented itself. And honestly what makes cured ground-up beef and chicken that different from the traditional contents of the second option? 

So I reasoned as I took the knife to the pickle loaf again, this time chopping it into pink squares and chopping those squares into smaller pink squares, and so on, until I'd minced the pickle loaf into a pickle pulp, an optimal medium for pipe transportation. 

I'd misplaced my cutting board and run fresh out of napkins, so I transferred the scraps from counter to toilet by wrapping them up in a towel and dumping them (The contents made an echoing "plunk" as they met the surface). Then I pressed the handle and flushed the pulp away. As the last tendril disappeared down that porcelain gullet, I felt as if a tremendous weight had been removed from my chest, probably akin to how one feels after an exorcism. I had expelled the foul spirit from my presence. 

Or so I presumed. I'd forgotten about the one remaining slice, tucked away between two slices of bread. It was lounging on the counter, when I shuffled into the kitchen for the fourth time that night, gaping at me, mocking me. And when I spotted the accursed thing, I panicked. I lost my ability to reason. Yes, I did a very foolish thing that I've since grown to regret. 

I saved it for later. I rummaged through the magazine fragments adorning the kitchen table, extricated a glass plate decorated with vines and roses, gingerly picked up the pickle loaf sandwich, placed it at the center of the dish, opened the refrigerator door, and shoved it into the corner between the olives and the Sargento. Then I slammed the door shut with a resolute thud, locking my tormenter away. 

Note: By now, you're probably wondering why I'm describing this particular anecdote. What, indeed, does an uneaten pickle loaf sandwich fifteen years ago have to do with my missing Coke bottle today? Don't worry; I'll cut to the chase soon. These sign posts are vital pieces to the puzzle. Without them we couldn't find our destination. Just as a classical philosopher must layout his methodology at the outset of his treatise, so I must describe the succession of bizarre manifestations which have prompted my conclusions.

What I'm saying, dear reader, is that the most horrible, unspeakable things sometimes begin completely normal. They simply change through time and neglect. They proliferate. Yes.

They grow.