Yesterday, I became a superhero. Today, I felt I should
do some patrolling, and Rosana Square felt like the perfect place to do
it.
I moseyed down the street, decked out in my new Condiment Man costume. Cars
whooshed by, their drivers giving me odd looks as I wandered along, looking
for my first person to save. I walked past the KenTacoHut, peering through
the windows for someone in need. I didn’t see anyone, so I headed
over to McDougle’s.
I stepped inside and paused by a trash can. “The stench of a condiment
waster is in the air!” I moved quickly around the restaurant, looking
for the evil doer.
“You sir!” I screamed, pointing at a guy in a gray suit, “Why
do you have all of these packets of empty Fancy Ketchup?”
He sat silently with a puzzled look on his face, staring down at the mound
of ketchup, then replied in a quivering voice, “For my fries?”
“No! You get one packet for every seven fries, or one packet for every
fourteen fries at McDougle’s, since they’re smaller, and two
packets if you like a lot of ketchup. Condiment waster! You must have twenty
packets of ketchup here, but where, sir, are the 280 French fries?”
“Well...”
“Exactly! You only have clearance for three, maybe four packets. Did
you know there are people out there that would kill for a little ketchup?
Did you think about little Billy, who decided to bring his friends here
on his birthday? No! He’s going to show up here expecting all the
ketchup he and his friends need, only to find this usually condiment plentiful
establishment is out. His friends are going to laugh at him. He will be
tormented by this for the rest of his life! Little Billy, driven to a life
of loneliness and crime because you ate all the ketchup.”
“You’re insane!”
“No, I’m Condiment Man, the world’s first superhero, who
has sworn to fight the likes of you! You condiment waster that will suffer
my wrath if you don’t do something to replace those wasted condiments
that you have just opened, then will soon throw away, just because your
condiment grabbing hands were bigger than your box of fries.”
“But I Crazysized them!”
“Crazysizing just makes the box bigger, the number of fries is the
same.”
“Liar! We add an average of three extra fries per Crazysizion,”
shouted a McDougle’s employee, “and you get a bigger drink to
wash them down with.”
“Who cares about the bigger drink! This man here is wasting condiments!”
The condiment waster pounded his fists on the table, stood, and shouted,
“Shut up about the stupid condiments! I just wasted forty cents on
a few cold fries and a bigger drink I don’t need!”
The condiment waster leaned back, and tried to punch me. I dodged to the
side, snapped my hand out, and grabbed the condiment waster’s tie.
I led him around me, then flung his condiment wasting self toward the line
of cash registers.
He flipped over the counter, slamming into a McDougle’s employee carrying
a big jug, marked Special Hi-C. The employee flew into the food warmer,
dropping the jug onto the condiment waster. Special Hi-C exploded out of
the jug, drenching the waster of condiments in the bubbly, smoking liquid.
A dense cloud of smoke filled the area where the condiment waster lay. The
McDougle’s employees froze with frightened looks on their faces.
“That’s not the, ehh... Special Hi-C, is it?” a manager
whispered to one of his employees.
The white smoke slowly cleared, revealing the condiment waster, standing
in a shiny black suit, watching as the smoking liquid slowly burned into
his hands.
“Condiment Man, you now have yourself an arch enemy, and his name,
is The ‘Waster’,” he bellowed while making air quotes
for ‘waster’. “I will be there, to foil your condiment
giving. I will be there, to kick you when you’re down. I will be there,
to waste your precious condiments. And I will be there, as soon as I win
my multi-billion dollar case against McDougle’s.”
“Uhh... what multi-billion dollar case?” asked the manager.
“The one where I sue you for letting me fly over the counter into
that Hi-C. I will win of course, because you don’t have a warning
against it. I will see you all later,” with that, he strolled out
the door, laughing maniacally.
The manager looked over at me, “Ronaldo won’t like this. He’ll
probably kill you.”
“The happy clown?” I asked.
“He may look like a happy clown on TV, but he is a lethal killing
machine. That’s why he’s here, he got kicked out of McDougleland.”