CHU!

Still stuck in The “Waster”’s basement, I paced from one side of the room to the other, the doorway to freedom on my side.

The “Waster” on the other hand, confident that I was sufficiently stuck, left for his mother-in-law’s house to reacquire his wife. He had plans for her.

I kicked at the door, the walls, ceiling, floor, hoping something would give. Nothing did.

The “Waster” knocked on his mother-in-law’s door. After a few moments, she opened the door for him. She led him to his wife sitting at the kitchen table, holding a mug full of steaming tea with both hands.

“What are you doing here?” she said angrily.

“I have an idea,” said The “Waster”, sitting in the chair next to hers. He reached across the table, putting his hand on her arm, clenching lightly.

“What? What is this great idea you have?” she yelled.

“I know where Ronaldo’s new headquarters is.”

“So?”

“Where he has a headquarters, he has a portal back to McDougleland. Where he has a portal, he has shipments of his special Hi-C.”

“So what are you saying?”

“We could be an evil duo.”

The children descended on the factories. They ran down the hills, through the parking lots, right up to the main factory doors. The children found the factory supervisors and told them they were on a field trip. They were led inside the main condiment production area, and proceeded to beat their guide to the ground. A great many children were put into time-out from the factory workers, but the children outnumbered them. Every condiment factory fell to the children.

“My Condiment Phone!” I pulled the phone from my belt and tried to call Alfredo. “Stupid bars! Why must there not be any of you!” I stuffed the useless phone back in its compartment, and kicked the door yet again. My Condiment Sense started to tingle. “The kids are getting close.”

The children played with the buttons on the machines. Eventually, they figured out how to spill the thousands of gallons of condiments onto the ground. “Wake up! You are now free!” the children yelled with every spilt batch. Objective 1: Complete.

“Waaaaahaaa!!!” It hit me all at once. I watched gallons of condiments flooding the factories. A river of condiments burst through the exit doors, pouring out onto the concrete and seeping into the soil. Every packets worth of condiment was a pin prink in my head. Every packet ate away at me.

Pang! Pang! A baseball bat was in the process of turning a well crafted pipe into a piece of well crafted scrap. Mixing drums were being crushed, buttons broken, and papers on desks were thrown onto the floor and occasionally stepped on. Objective 2: Complete.

There was movement upstairs. Two people, at least. The floor creaked as they walked from the front door, to right on top of me. They paused, then walked in the direction of the basement door. The door flew open, and The “Waster” walked slowly down the stairs. Behind him walked a man in a mask.

“As you can see, I have captured Team Red Evil,” The “Waster pointed at me, “so you will have little to fear from him. Keep your Condíments well trained though, you never know when you will need to use them in battle.”

The “Waster” led the man to my left, to the corner diagonally opposite mine where The “Waster” had some machinery set up. Massive wires exited two power outlets connecting to four metal domes in a square around a shiny metal chair. Attached to the chair were head, arm, and leg restraints, as well as tubes which ran from the chair to the bottoms of gallon sized metal vats hanging from the ceiling. The man sat in the chair, and The “Waster” strapped him in. Needles were attached to the tubes, which were inserted under his ears.

The “Waster” stood behind a control panel, and turned on the power. The lights started to dim as the machine whirred up. The metal vats started to vibrate slightly, and the man shook his head from side to side. The “Waster” flipped another switch, and the four domes surrounding the chair started sparking. Bolts of electricity flew from the dome, to the chair. The hum of electricity filled the room, growing louder as the lights dimmed to give the machine more strength. The bolts flew from the domes even quicker, then as the computers in my cell whirred to a halt and the basement became pitch black except for the bright blue light from the electricity, the bolts became solid streams of electricity to the chair.

I have to stop this. I backed up, and charged at the door.

“CONDIMENT KICK!!” I screamed as I flew through the air toward the door. My foot collided with the door, and the door gave little resistance. The door swung on its hinges and pounded the wall to its right. Not expecting the door to give way so easily, I landed on my back with my waist on the threshold between freedom, and my cell.

Halfway to my feet, The “Waster” was on his way to me. Jumping from the cell, “Waster” kicked me in the chest, pushing me backward into the basement wall. He withdrew his foot, and I collapsed to the floor. So many condiments being wasted at once took a lot out of me. I knelt on the floor, trying to catch my breath.

“You remember little Billy, don’t you? If I remember correctly, his birthday will be coming shortly. Once again, he will take his friends to McDougles expecting a fun afternoon. Burgers and fries for everyone, ketchup and mustard giving each a lift from plain grilled meat to extraordinary. But that is not what will happen. No, because you failed, his friends will make fun of him. His birthday will be ruined. People will be unable to celebrate the day of his birth, and he will fall to a life of loneliness and crime. He will cause pain to others the same way you caused pain to him, he will deny them condiments. He will become a condiment waster. So will little Tommy, Mary, Zack, and Jeff. McDougles, and every other restaurant, will never have a condiment to dispense again!”

I have failed you little Billy. The wind picked up. I felt the chill of the tears evaporating from my cheeks. Wind? I’m in a basement. The “Waster” looked puzzled too, I stood, and we looked to where the wind was coming.

A condiment packet sized circle hung in the air centered between me and The “Waster,” and about three feet to my right. The outer edge was engulfed in a dark purple flame which spun slowly counter-clockwise. The flame started spinning faster, as it did the circle grew bigger.

I could only see the purple glow as the circle grew the three feet, then there was Ronaldo. Behind him was all of McDougalland. Clouds of smoke rose from factories, freakish things slaved behind him, carrying vats of bubbling liquid.

The circle touched the floor, and Ronaldo stepped into The “Waster”’s basement. The circle vanished instantly behind him.

“I need those condiments Waster,” said Ronaldo.

“Where do I start?” He looked briefly at the ground, then back at Ronaldo, “I don’t care, and it’s pronounced, “Waster”,” he said, making air quotes for Waster.

“What? That’s what I said.”

“Don’t play your clown games with me Ronaldo. I hope you remember that only got you to the wrong side of the courtroom. My name is “Waster”,” making air quotes for Waster, “Get it right.”

“What? Why does “Waster” get quoted?” Ronaldo said while making air quotes for “Waster”.

“No, no, no. You don’t make air quotes for “Waster”,” I said making air quotes for Waster. “That would double quote it. You can’t have that.”

“You better not have that,” said The “Waster”

“You would have all four fingers on each hand involved, you’d look like Spock saying ‘Live long and prosper’ with both hands, only your fingers would bend as you said Waster,” I continued. “You only want to quote Waster.”

Ronaldo shook his head, “This is why I hate both of you. I don’t care how your stupid name is quoted. I don’t care about Spock. I don’t care about that guy getting electrocuted in that chair. What I care about is my restaurant having ketchup and mustard. That is why you,” he yelled, pointing at me, “are going to turn your entire condiment supply over to my fast food chain, and that is why you,” he pointed at The “Waster”, “are going to stay away from my stores.”

“Hoarder! The condiments I have will be dispensed to whoever needs them. Not just your evil store,” I screamed back at him.

The “Waster” walked slowly toward the basement door, “I’ll waste condiments wherever I want Ronaldo. Right now I feel like wasting all the ketchup at McDougles.”

I jumped in front of The “Waster”, “No you won’t!”

“Well, looks like you stopped me then.” “Waster” backed up to the panel controlling the chair. “But you haven’t stopped,” he pressed a button on the panel, and the electricity going into the chair stopped. The tubes stopped pumping liquid into the masked man, and the lights flicked back on. The “Waster” pointed to the top of the basement stairs, “Mrs. “Waster”!” he said making air quotes for Waster.

At the top of the stairs stood The “Waster”’s wife. Gone was her apron and flowery dress. Replacing them was a black suit. She flipped her now curly black hair over her shoulder, and said, “Looks like I have some condiments to waste.” She then spun on her heel and went back up the stairs.

Enraged, and shocked I had another arch enemy, I flew after her up the stairs.

As I ran, Ronaldo screamed, “Waster! You stole my Hi-C!”

“My name is “Waster”!” The “Waster” echoed up the stairs as I ran toward the door.

A quick breath of outside air while I scanned the sub-division for Mrs. “Waster”, then spotted her backing her shiny black Lexus RX from the garage.

“Condiment Kick!” I yelled, then charged the car. Mrs. “Waster” looked over as I screamed, then away as my foot crashed through her passenger window. My knee up didn’t go through the window, and fell toward the ground. I flipped, and landed on all fours on the driveway next to the now stopped SUV.

The door opened, and a high heeled shoe clicked onto the pavement, followed by another one. I climbed to my feet as she walked around the front of the car. She looked at her broken window, then at me. She leaned back, and let loose a volley of punches at my face of such frequency I had not yet come into contact with in my superheroing career, but I soon did. All I could see were fists, then the neighbors yard, my head would snap back just in time to see the next fist, then the “Waster”’s yard, with the little pink flamingo, then the next punch. Eventually I fell backward into the grass.

The sky looked very nice today. Lots of clouds. The sky is spinning clockwise today. Don’t remember hearing that would happen today.

I blinked, my face screamed in pain. The sky stopped spinning. I rolled onto my stomach and crawled toward the street.

One of those clickey shoes landed in my lower back, and it felt like Mrs. “Waster” was attached to it. I fell to my stomach, and she jumped off to beside my head. I looked up to see her black pants, behind them in the yard across the street two kids sat on their bikes watching the fight.

She took a few steps back, jogged a bit, and came at me with her right leg.

I flipped to the right, and her leg grazed my arm.

She turned the failed kick into a jump, and came down heel first.

Again, I rolled out of the way, and she drove the heel of her shoe into the ground. I jumped to my feet and charged at her. At the last second I jumped to her right, somersaulted on the ground, and on my way to my feet yanked the flamingo from the ground. With flamingo in hand I focused my hatred of condiment wasters into a glare at her, and she fell backwards to the ground.

She quickly rose, and walked calmly toward me. She yelled, and thrust her heel toward my chin.

I grabbed the flamingo head and caught her foot at the arch with the flamingo leg. She pushed hard into the flamingo, the heel of her foot centimeters from my neck. Her heel grew closer, all the while this determined look filled her face. I focused my energies, and pushed up on the flamingo.

Mrs. “Waster” toppled back, landing on the grass below. She performed a backwards somersault to her feet, and pulled the second flamingo from the ground with her left hand.

“I should tell you, I am a master flamingosman,” stated Mrs. “Waster” twirling the yard ornament.

“And I should tell you, I am a superhero.”

We circled counter-clockwise, then clockwise for good measure.

I jabbed at her chest, which was easily deflected. She countered, slashing at my right arm. The beak caught my bicep, and she snapped the flamingo back into a defensive posture.

“Ahh, my arm,” I began to rub the sting away.

She came at me, but I was expecting it.

As she ran I ducked slightly and drove the flamingo at her stomach. It connected.

Mrs. “Waster” came to a complete stop. She looked surprised, then closed her eyes and pulled herself from the flamingo. “I just want you to know, I’m not left handed,” she tossed the flamingo from her left hand to her right.

“Neither am I,” and came at her again. I came in with berserker style repeated overhead chops. She easily deflected them, but the repeated blows drove her backward.

The repeated strikes wreaked havoc on my wounded bicep, but I kept them coming. I was almost there. We stepped into the street, and she continued to backpedal. Just a few more steps, and she would be at the bikes.

She stopped moving. The bikes where right behind her. Did she touch one? Did I give my plan away? I threw another chop, this one was deflected to my right. She recovered quickly, and slammed her flamingo into the top of my hand. The flamingo flew from my hand and bounced away from me on the pavement.

Mrs. “Waster” moved her flamingo to my neck. I moved backward, and she followed, not letting the cold plastic get more than an inch from my skin.

“Surrender!”

“I will never surrender to a condiment waster!”

She let me have it. She stabbed me in the neck with the round flamingo head, and grinned.

I coughed, and grabbed my neck with my hand.

My enemy raised the flamingo high above her head. By how she left herself open, she expected this to be the final blow. This would finish me off.

In a desperate move, I punched her stomach.

She faltered.

“Condiment Kick!” I called, and let loose the kick on her head.

She stood looking at the sky for a moment, her eyes closed and she collapsed to the ground.

The children across the street screamed, then applauded. They cheered. They rose from their bikes and smiled.

I bowed toward the children, and as I rose I smiled at them. It was then I realized they were not looking at me. They were looking toward the house.

“Horray! It’s the professor!” yelled a Condíment shirt wearing kid. “He’s gonna stop Team Red Evil!” he informed the other kids.

I slowly turned around, tired, and hurting.

The “Waster” stood on his porch, waving to the children. “Condiment Man, I see you defeated my wife. Good for you. But can you defeat-”

My Condiment Sense! Condiments being wasted, in The “Waster”’s house.

A horrible scream came from inside the house. The “Waster” started to look back inside, but was flung to the ground before he could see what had happened. Ronaldo ran from the house screaming, his face covered in Huy Fong Sriracha Hot Chili Sauce. He clawed at his face, trying to get the condiment from his eyes.

“Ronaldo! Eat those condiments or face my wrath!”

He continued screaming and clawing. I charged to knee him in the forehead. He rose up, and collapsed to the ground.

I fell to the ground next to him, wiped the condiment from his face, and began to stick it in his mouth.

“Team Red Evil!” came a familiar voice.

I looked up, and there before me was Casey. A group of Condíments smiled on his t-shirt, and he smiled over them. “I am a Condí-Master! I control every Condíment this world has ever seen! With you defeated, I’m going to go play with my Condíments!” With that, Casey jumped into his car, and took off.

I put the remaining Chili Sauce in Ronaldo’s mouth, jumped into the Condiment Mobile, and chased after Casey.