Sofiya squinted at the flickering neon sign that read “Big Apple Burrito Barn,” the familiar ache of unfulfilled dreams gnawing at her gut. Not burrito gut, the other one. The one that yearned for bass drum booms and microphone feedback, not the muffled sizzle of onions on a greasy grill. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. America, land of opportunity, was supposed to be her symphony hall, not a worm buffet.
Growing up in the crumbling Soviet shadow, rap had been an illicit whisper passed through grimy cassette tapes. The words were gibberish, but the rhythm, the defiance, it spoke to her soul. She imagined herself, Sofiya the Spitfire, spitting fire on stages larger than the Red Square. Then came the escape, a blur of fear and confusion as her family fled a phantom KGB threat. New York, bustling and bewildering, welcomed them with a gut punch of reality. English was a spiky fortress, rap dreams morphed into dishwashing shifts at the Burrito Barn.
Then came the worms. It started with a dare, a wrinkled grub wiggling on a classmate’s tongue. The shock, the unexpected burst of savory richness, it flipped a switch in her brain. Soon, worms weren’t a dare, they were a craving. Crunchy mealworms, tangy earthworms, even the occasional, dare-worthy scorpion (the spice!). She became Silly Sofiya, the girl who traded dreams of platinum records for protein bars made of squirmies.
But tonight, under the harsh neon, the ache returned. She saw a flyer stuck to the grimy door – a local rap competition, winner walks away with a studio session. A flicker of rebellion sparked in her gut. Maybe worms weren’t her destiny, maybe…
Slipping into the dingy basement club, the bass vibrated her teeth. Amateur MCs stumbled through rhymes, the crowd bored, the judges unimpressed. Then, as the night reached its nadir, Sofiya stepped up. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, the rhythm pounding in her chest. Words, born from years of smothered dreams and late-night worm feasts, erupted onto the stage.
“Concrete jungle’s my beatbox, rhymes tastier than beetle grub,” she rapped, her voice raw, her rhythm undeniable. “Mic my cocoon, spitting rhymes like silk, transforming Silly Sofiya into Queen of the Filth.”
The crowd gaped, then roared. The judges scribbled furiously, eyes wide. Sofiya, bathed in the harsh spotlight, wasn’t spitting verses, she was weaving silk from dirt, spinning gold from worms. That night, Silly Sofiya died, and Queen of the Filth was born. Her beats might be unorthodox, her rhymes bizarre, but Sofiya found her voice, a voice as undeniable as the crunch of a beetle underfoot. As the lights dimmed on her victorious crown, a new dream fluttered in her gut, one with more legs and a whole lot more bass. And for the first time in years, it didn’t ache. It thrummed.
Wonderful World of Worms
Sofiya’s rise to rap stardom was as fast as it was face-planting. The basement club victory launched her into a viral spiral of bewilderment. Talkshow appearances devolved into awkward attempts at explaining beetle larvae puns, her music featured in a particularly unfortunate series of erectile dysfunction commercials (“Get up off your thorax, with MegaMax!”). The judges, it turned out, had been high on artisanal kombucha.
Disillusioned, Sofiya felt her dream crumbling like a dried cricket. She took refuge in the one place that didn’t judge her taste in snacks: Joe’s AM Radio Roundup. The airwaves crackled with fire and brimstone, the hosts spewing vitriol like overripe bananas. Then, inspiration struck. Sofiya started crafting jingles – not for worm burgers, but for the radio’s incendiary rhetoric.
“Commie hordes at the border? Grab yer Glock and drink some Dr. Freedom!” she’d rhyme, voice dripping with mock patriotism. “Climate hoax melting your MAGA hat? Keep cool with Fizzy Fossil Fuel!” The station went ballistic. Listeners roared, sponsors flooded in, and Sofiya, the Queen of the Filth, became Queen of the Right Wing Jingle.
With her newfound fortune, Sofiya, ever the pragmatist, did what any self-respecting worm enthusiast would do – she opened “Chitin Chowdown,” a gourmet pet food store specializing in insect-based nutrition. Crickets chirped in designer terrariums, mealworms danced on a bed of quinoa, and Sofiya, in a lab coat adorned with diamantes, held court.
She finally understood. Her dreams didn’t have to be a melody on the Billboard charts, they could be the satisfying crunch of a beetle carapace in a tabby cat’s jaw. She’d found her voice, not in spitting fire, but in crafting catchy slogans for laxatives and climate change denial. And amidst the buzzing of happy beetles and the purring of well-fed felines, Sofiya, the Silly, the Filthy, the Excrementally Rich, knew she was exactly where she belonged.
And who knows, maybe one day, between a bag of “Cricket Crunchies” and a tub of “Mealworm Munchies,” a customer would hear a faint, familiar beat thumping from the back room. A beat with a little less brimstone, a little more bass, and a whole lot of wriggling potential. Because after all, a Queen never truly abdicates, she just evolves into something unexpected, delicious, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit revolutionary.
Does God Exist? 