Our writers at Thrillist have days when their minds and stomachs wander elsewhere and make sweet, sweet love on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire. You can't blame them when you realize all they're doing is chugging German booze and bum wine.
One of our guys took his love for Taco Bell and smutty noir fiction for a ride in his white party van and wrote this very strange, very hunger-inducing piece of fiction. In his defense, he was probably on drugs.
THE BELL RINGS AT MIDNIGHT
by Jeremy Glass
Sherwin Blackhardt sits at his desk in a smoke-filled apartment in Chinatown with a revolver pointed at his front door.
“Any second now…,” he mutters to himself, as he uses his free hand to slather fire sauce all over his Cheesy Gordita Crunch.
Footsteps echo throughout his hall as the screams of the neighbors in 2A, 2B, and 2C are muffled by the violent touch of that gutless, double-decker taco-munching coward Clemons Darkwood.
“Darkwood,” yells Blackhardt. “I know that’s you, ya damn refried beans eating ghoul!”
The footsteps stop, and the familiar sound of Darkwood’s guttural laugh leaks into the apartment.
“Blackhardt, my old chap. I’m surprised you could hear me over the sound of you manically tearing open a quesadilla package, you slimy sack of flesh.”
“Damn, that hits hard,” mutters Blackhardt, as he swaps out his Gordita Crunch for the much sought-after cheese quesadilla. Classic Darkwood to humiliate a man for chasing after his passion.
“Alright, Blackhardt! I’m giving you until the count of three to open this damn door!”
“Until what? Your fingers get so covered in creamy chipotle sauce that you’ll have to call one of your cronies to open my door for ya? Heck, I bet you don’t even have a gun on you.”
Blackhardt’s query is answered by an olive-sized gunhole in his front door. Blackhardt steadies his hands enough to take a sip of a jumbo Mountain Dew Baja Blast.
“One!” yells Darkwood.
Blackhardt’s heart is pumping faster than the impeccable customer service of a Taco Bell employee.
The door blows open and there stands Sherwin Blackhardt’s arch-nemesis and former schoolboy chum, Clemons Darkwood. They look at each other for a hot minute, carefully examining each other’s faces. Blackhardt puts down his Baja Blast and watches Darkwood’s signature double-decker taco with a Doritos Locos inner-shell fall to the ground.