Taco Bell fan fiction, as penned by our most sane employee

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.

Three knocks.

“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.

“Two!”

Blackhardt’s heart is pumping faster than the impeccable customer service of a Taco Bell employee.

“Three!”

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.

taco bell fan fiction
M. Wickham Art

“What a damn shame,” starts Blackhardt. “That’s a waste of a solid meal.”

Darkwood licks his lips and slowly reaches into his coat. Blackhardt follows suit and reaches into his.

“No funny stuff. Let’s keep it cool.”

“I’m cool. I’m cooler than a chalupa on ice, baby.”

“Oooh,” says Darkwood. “Kitty’s got claws.”

The two men slowly withdraw their hands from their coat pockets. Blackhardt’s Cheesy Potato Burrito is met with a Crunchwrap Supreme.

“That’s a hell of a piece you’re packing there, Darkwood.”

“Likewise.”

“We going to settle this like gentlemen or do I gotta get rough-and-tumble?”

Darkwood’s question finds itself being answered as both grown men start slowly eating their respective meals with passionate salivating chewing. Their eye contact never wavers, never breaks, heck, maybe even grows sexy as the cacophonous sounds of crunching echoes throughout the little Chinatown apartment.

They’d been feuding for years and were likely to fight until death. Their anger had many layers, like a seven-layer burrito covered in a verde sauce of envy. They were friends once, long ago, but their competing passion for the love of Taco Bell pulled them apart. Pulled them apart like a pulled apart Mexican pizza.

As Blackhardt chews intensely, he couldn’t help but think this was shaping up to be a way better birthday than last year.


Jeremy Glass is a writer for Supercompressor.com, but often wastes company time quoting American Psycho. His twitter is hooked up to a powerful machine that sends electric shocks of pleasure to his nipples every time someone favorites a tweet.

All art is hand-drawn by Slovakian slum-lord, Michelle Wickham.