The unmistakable sound of glass shattering cracked through the peaceful cocoon of your dreams like a drunk jazz solo—abrupt, violent, and just jazzy enough to guarantee disaster. You shot upright, blankets cascading in slow motion like a Broadway curtain revealing the lead actor in a tragic comedy. No need to guess. Your sixth sense didn’t just whisper; it screamed: Venom has struck again.

You let out a sigh so heavy it could’ve powered a steam engine, scrubbing a hand down your face as your feet met the floor, which greeted you with all the warmth of an emotionally unavailable marble tile. With a yawn and the grace of a mildly inconvenienced housecat, you shuffled toward the origin point of chaos.

The moment the door creaked open, it was like stepping into a scene from Kitchen Nightmares: Alien Symbiote Edition. A thick, industrial-grade fog of smoke swirled through the air like it had aspirations of becoming sentient. Somewhere in that smog was Eddie Brock—survivor, hostage, and unwilling sous-chef—palms pressed to his temples in a gesture that said “If I pretend hard enough, maybe this will fix itself.”

“Damnit! Venom, you don’t put orange juice in eggs!” Eddie barked, his voice cracking with the kind of panic usually reserved for near-death experiences involving vacuum cleaners and jellyfish.

Venom, elegantly protruding from Eddie’s back like the world’s sassiest neck pillow, had commandeered the kitchen with the authority of a Food Network villain. His eyes gleamed with culinary ambition. The sizzling pan before him fumed ominously, full of rubbery eggs bubbling like lava and oozing a weird citrus sheen. It looked vaguely radioactive. The smell? A heinous combination of scorched protein and breakfast regret.

A rogue tentacle flailed wildly from behind Eddie’s shoulder, wielding a spatula with the enthusiasm of a toddler who just discovered whisks. It attempted a backflip maneuver with one lone egg that landed perfectly… on the floor. Splat. Venom didn’t seem to notice—or care. The performance was the priority.

“VEMON DOES NOT LISTEN WHEN HE IS COOKING!” Venom declared grandly, his voice reverberating like he was announcing the next act in a circus. His tongue flailed beside him like a hyperactive metronome, catching air and possibly a stray cornflake from somewhere unknown.

Every surface of the kitchen had become a Jackson Pollock tribute made with yolk, citrus pulp, and a tragic misunderstanding of “fusion cuisine.” The toaster wept silently in the corner. A bottle of maple syrup perched precariously on top of a frying pan like it was contemplating escape.

Eddie cast you a look—the kind worn by people who’ve fought in noodle wars and lost. “He thinks brunch is a battlefield,” he muttered, motioning toward the smoky disaster before them.

Venom paused dramatically, lifting a scorched fork like a trophy. “IT IS A BATTLE—FOR FLAVOR! VENOM WILL WIN!” he roared triumphantly.