You pop out of the bunker and reassemble it into the loyal friend known as SPAMGORG with dizzying speed. You're quite adept at erecting Spamgorgs, and this is far from the first model. You keep making improvements with each generation, and by now he arguably qualifies as the ultimate killing machine. But be that as he may, to you, he will always be what you originally intended him as - the ultimate friend.

Wait, you just remembered in your haste to resurrect Spamgorg, you left the Food Lovers in there, and have crushed them both into unrecognizable slop filling the nooks and crannies of Spamgorg's interior. You suppose this makes him somewhat of a cyborg, and it becomes impossible to deny he is now inhabited by the souls of the Food Lovers. In away, it's a more poetic fate than you ever could have imagined for them. In their inadvertent fusion and entombment, you see beauty beyond words. You start tearing up again... you always get this way whenever you commemorate 9/11. You really need to pull your shit together. It's what the fallen heroes would have wanted.

Oh yeah, the angelic figure who pinged you this thought via the Rhapsodist was someone named "Shelby!" who is beyond any doubt a mirthful individual, because Spamgorg fucking rules, and anyone who brings him back into your life is A-OK in your, quite literal, book.