Burger Stack
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Tap to send the burger plummeting—time it right, and watch it land perfectly. Quick fingers make the tastiest stacks, so nail that tap and keep the feast falling!
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Forget everything you think you know about burgers—this isn’t about slapping a few extra patties between buns. We’re talking about a monument to excess, a tower of flavors so colossal it bends the rules of culinary physics. Start with a black hole bun, baked from dough kneaded with stardust and dark matter, dense enough to trap light but somehow pillowy on the inside. Layer one: a patty seared from a meteorite—charred crust, molten core, radiating heat that could power a small city. Stack it with neutron star onions, caramelized to a singularity of sweetness, their rings compressed into hyper-dense spirals that crunch like collapsing universes. Now the cheese—quantum cheddar that exists in all states at once, oozing molten gold and crystalline sharpness simultaneously. Follow it with bacon strips cured in the breath of dragons, each strip crackling with elemental fire and mouth-numbing spice. Slide in a rogue tomato, genetically resurrected from fossils, its juices so vibrant they temporarily reverse entropy. Then, the wild card: time-dilated pickles, brined for subjective millennia in a relativistic jar, their tang hitting your taste buds before you even take a bite. Crown it with a hypernova sauce—part condiment, part cosmic event—blending supernova peppers, black hole truffle oil, and comet-tail mayonnaise. Finally, cap it with the top bun, sealing the burger in a gravitational embrace. Consuming it isn’t just a meal—it’s a spacetime event. One bite warps perception; two risk unraveling the fabric of your hunger. Finish the whole thing? You’ll rewrite your own existence as a monument to gastronomic audacity. This isn’t food. It’s a dare to the gods of gluttony.
