I pulled up to a suburban house with freshly mowed grass, a puppy in the back yard sleeping in its dog house, and a rock path leading up to the front door. I double checked the address, walked up to the front door, and knocked.
After a bit, a lady in a dress pulled the door open. “Hello, how are you today?” she said pleasantly.
“I’m fine. I was looking for Retsaw Publishing, and I think I’m in the wrong place.”
“I knew you were here to see my husband! C’mon in, make yourself at home, and I’ll go get him.”
I stepped inside, and was ushered into the living room, where I made myself at home on the most comfortable couch I have ever sat on. It was like a waterbed, squishing around you, but it was firmer. I must ask this lady where she got this couch.
“Hon!” she yelled, “Your friend Condiment Man is here to see you!”
I wiggled around on the couch, sending waves of whatever was in the couch out to the end of the cushion, and watched them travel back, smacking into my leg.
There were footsteps. I watched couch waves. A figure blocked the light entering through the window. I looked up, standing before the window was my nemesis, The “Waster”.
“What brings you by, my ketchup obsessed arch enemy?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know. Retsaw Publishing? Do you think I’m an idiot or something?”
“So, you figured out that Retsaw was really “Waster” backwards, and you tracked me to my house using some high tech tracking device?”
“Err… yes. I figured all that out.”
“I knew you could do it. My wife thought you would follow the address on the ad, man that feels good to be right.”
“Yup, actually I lied. You overestimated my intelligence! You were wrong! HA!”
“You devious little retard. Well, it doesn’t matter. You have still fallen into my nefarious little trap. Prepare to die! Mwa ha ha ha haaaaa!”
I stood, leaving my hind quarters crying and reaching desperately to once again be caressed by the substance filled leather, and headed straight for The “Waster”, but I was stopped mid travels.
“Condiment Man,” said “Waster”’s wife, “dinner is almost ready, we’d be delighted if you would stay.”
I looked over at The “Waster”, who looked annoyed, and was staring at me, “Sure, I’d love to stay.”
“Great, I set the table while you two were talking, so go have a seat.”
I followed The “Waster” into the kitchen, who now looked much less annoyed. Actually, he was as giddy as an evil villain could be.
We sat at the table; I was directed to sit across from the evil, with his wife sitting between us. She entered the room, carrying plates of burger patties, buns, and French fries.
“Sorry it’s nothing fancy Condiment Man, but it was “Waster”’s turn to choose dinner.”
“Quite alright,” I replied.
“I’m sorry about not having ketchup or mustard for the burger or fries either, my husband just loves them so much, we must go through three bottles a day!” she said laughing.
I laughed politely, scowling at my enemy. He hardly noticed through his howling laughter.
“That’s ok. I have some of my own.” I counted the number of fries on my plate, calculated the volume of my hamburger patty, and squirted the perfect amount of both ketchup and mustard onto my food.
“Oh, Condiment Man, could I have some of your ketchup?” he said with a grin.
“Uhhh…”
“This food just wouldn’t be as tasty without some condiment to liven it up.”
My hand trembled, the bottle ready to jump out of my grip. Slowly, I stretched my arm across the table, his hand clasped the top. He pulled, I didn’t release. He pulled again, harder, and the bottle left my grip. A tear left my eye.
“I love ketchup on my food!” he said while squirting the condiment all over his plate until air started to fart its way out of the bottle. Shaking the bottle, he squeezed the last few drops onto his burger.
“He really loves ketchup!” said his wife through a chuckle, “I mean he always has, but since he turned evil, he just can’t get enough of the stuff! I’m sure glad he has a friend like you Condiment Man, so how long have you known my husband?”
The “Waster” tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder, a grin from ear to ear. He sunk his thumb and index finger down into the puddle, when he found it was too deep, he sunk some of his hand too. He pulled a fry to the surface, and looked it over. He looked at me, then back at the fry.
“Did you know him before he was evil?”
He wiped as much of the ketchup off on his plate as he could. He looked disappointed when there were a few lines still on the fried potato. He reached for his napkin.
“I married him before he was evil. He used to dress in blues, greens, reds, well… color. Then one day he came home from work early, he was wearing a black suit, black shirt, black tie, shiny black shoes, and black socks.”
He dabbed off the ketchup, leaving the fry as pristine as it was before the ketchup bath. He raised it toward his mouth, and put his lips around it.
“I asked him how his day was, he said ‘I went to eat, and this guy yelled at me, tossed me over the counter. I was turned evil. I have an arch enemy now. We must sue McDougles, and I must use the money to destroy Condiment Man!’ Is that you?”
The “Waster” sucked the ketchup out of the fry, and spit it onto the plate. Laughing, he downed the fry.
“I like your costume, did you make it yourself?”
“Well, I’m full,” said The “Waster” as he pushed he plate away.
“That is too far!” I screamed, throwing my napkin down on the table as I flew out of my seat. “Put that ketchup in your stomach or you shall feel cold fist in your face!”
“Sniff, sniff. You guys are going to fight now,” The “Waster”’s wife sputtered out. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her face was slowly turning red. “All day I was slaving over this dinner, and all you two want to do is fight. Well, go ahead. Sniff. You can’t take ten minutes out of your day, well that’s fine.”
My heart sank and my rage grew with every word she uttered. My brain was flooded. What should I do? Eat and watch as my enemy wastes condiments right in front of me, and make his wife happy. She’s not evil after all; at least I don’t think so. Or should I flip this table over, and break that woman’s heart?
I sat back down, flipping my cape over the back of the chair. I looked at The “Waster”’s wife, the frown beginning to fade into a smile. My enemy though; he was holding back euphoria. His jaw was quivering he was so happy.
“Thank you Condiment Man,” she said, letting the sadness die down, “you two don’t need to fight every five minutes over some stupid condiments.”
She looked up from her plate, towards my empty chair. Surprise filled her eyes when she saw me across the table, cramming a handful of ketchup down her husband’s throat.
“Gwaffer Mmn wan!” cried The “Waster”.
“My dinner is ruined!”
“You are married to an evil,” I slammed another handful into his mouth, “condiment waster! He must be thwarted, or the children of the world will not know the glory of a burger with condiments!”
“Waster”’s chair toppled over backward, and he rolled out of my grip. He stood, ketchup dripping from his chin, a look of hatred in his eyes.
“Waster”’s wife watched each drop of ketchup as it fell to the floor, exploding onto her white carpet. One explosion. Two. As the third neared she called out, “Get in the kitchen and help me with dessert.”
“But we don’t have any dessert, dear.”
“Yes! We do! Get in the kitchen.”
The “Waster” turned and followed his wife into the kitchen. Muffled voices came through the door, and I strained to hear them.
“He is my arch enemy! Fighting is what we do!”
“I don’t care! We never have people over anymore, and when we do, all you want to do is punch their lights out!”
“In case you forgot, I am evil”
“All you do is plot anymore!”
I stood there in their dining room, my hosts battling it out in the kitchen. Trying to pass the time, I investigated the walls, pictures and design schematics of the Condiment Wave, and a painting of The “Waster”’s creation that day in McDougles graced the walls. As I reminisced on my victory that day, Mrs. “Waster” charged from the kitchen.
“I’m going to Mother’s.”
“Good! Maybe I can finally get a little business done with you not annoying me every ten seconds!”
She slammed the door behind her, and I could see her storming down the walkway through the window.
“Waster” walked over to me, “Women,” he said, and punched me in the face.
“Ahh!” I yelled, reeling back. “So where do you make these cartoons!” I kicked him in the shin.
He hopped around on one leg, “Downstairs, I have a production studio!” He kneed me in the gut, spun around behind me, and elbowed me in the back of the head.
After a brief blackout period, I found myself on the floor. I pried myself up to my feet, “so where is this trap you promised me? I don’t think I’m dead yet.” I stomped his foot, then followed it with a strong kick to the head.
“Waster” flew back into a table; his collision knocked a picture from the wall. He picked the picture up, and ran at me; I ducked, picked him up, and heaved him against the opposite wall. He lay there, not moving.
I took this opportunity to run around his house, and find the production studio. I found pages upon pages of animation, thousands of pages of script, and future plot points. I tore each page into fifty pieces, and chewed each piece until the ink was no longer legible. Afterward, I broke every piece of equipment down there. One week later I was standing triumphantly over a pile of spit wads and broken chunks of metal and wood. I chuckled, and decided I’d better mosey out of here.
I achieved mosey posturing, and began to walk from the studio, when the studio door slammed shut, and this was a no nonsense door. Made from some sort of solid metal, and fortified with some other sort of metal I didn’t think I could break through, this was one solid door.
A PA system snapped on, “Now I have caught you in my trap! While you were eating all that paper, I broadcast the last Condíment episode. In it, I have informed my minions to invade the major condiment production factories and wake every Condíment they find. Then, they will destroy every piece of equipment they see. With the condiments that will be wasted, along with the destruction of the factories, what will follow will be a worldwide condiment famine. You will hear a world screaming for a more lively food item, but you will be able to do nothing but listen. The end is now, Condiment Man!”