I have named it the Maker of Orphans

Though its flint rod can make fire, it also wreaks darkness.

Though it was built to bring sustenance, it heralds the famine of winter.

Though its serrated butter blade be polished to a high sheen, it reflects only the futility of your existence and the bottomless void of being.

Prepare yourselves. You behold not just a mere spork, but your very doom.

You behold the MUNCHER.