The only thing Arnold hated more than everything else was the way Derek ate Kit-Kats. Arnold was convinced that Kit-Kat protocol - nay, Kit-Kat duty - was a human knowledge so innate that it never actually needed to be explained. It’s like breastfeeding or blinking for Christ’s sake. You just do it. Of course, the joy of rubbing the silver foil tightly against the Kit-Kat embossed chocolate had long been lost; Arnold’s letters to Nestlé shamefully ignored. But aside from the abominable ‘Chunky’, Kit-Kats have been, and always will be, fashioned in fingers. As far as Arnold and the rest of the civilised world were concerned, they’re designed to be broken off one by one then snapped in the middle before devouring. How you devoured them from that point on was entirely your own call. Arnold himself chose to bite each half-finger in half again. His father was a sucker. (His father before him had, tragically, never tried a Kit-Kat.) Arnold once witnessed a young girl on the bus nibble each half-finger’s surrounding chocolate until the wafer was exposed; soggyishly crispish and naked. She then passed the insipid half-finger to the chubby girl who sat next to her, who demolished it so quickly that Arnold was sure she would lose a thumb. But Derek. Fucking Derek! He peeled the wrapper away and bit into all four fingers like they were a fucking cookie. So Arnold killed Derek. And felt perfectly justified in doing so.
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