It was Friday night, and I was at Max’s Burgers and Gyros with Steve drooling over our Bigmax burgers with cheese, his with no tomato, mine without onion. Each of us had a small fry with regular drink full of Pepsi.
The place was nearly empty, as is usual when we arrive. Gradually, it will pick up and the loud volume of the television mounted to the wall above our heads will become necessary. At the moment though, the Situation Room was more of a distraction than a benefit.
Steve reached for the ketchup bottle. “So is that boycott still going on?”
I heard the words, but wasn’t listening. The ketchup bottle in his hand was the focus of my attention. Fortunately, he squirted an acceptable mound of ketchup into his fry-filled basket.
“Huh?” The last few seconds of dialogue finally registered, “Oh, yeah. Actually, I added the pizza place in Oak Park Mall to the list.”
Steve shook his head, “When will they learn to take our cards for small purchases too?”
Thundering trumpet blasts signaling the contents of the nightly news burst from the television, and Steve and I leaned back to see what was happening. Stars and stripes flashed dramatically across the screen, then faded. A man in a suit behind a desk shuffled some papers before looking square into the camera. “Leaders of the NAEH have vanished, only their clothes have been found. Are they a part of the hero vanishings taking place across the nation?”
The camera changed angles, and the reporter followed, “Hide your emotions, a New York villain last seen six years ago has returned to strike fear in the flyover states.”
Again the camera moved to a new position, “What happens when your cheeseburger needs some ketchup? A New Jersey based superhero will ‘Spice Up Your Life!’” A video of a hero resembling Condiment Man throwing ketchup and mustard packets into a van window at a drive-thru played under the reporter’s voice. “More at 10:00.”
Did I ever go to Jersey? I don’t think I would have set up another Condiment Cave there. The hero on the screen looked like me in a way, but something felt off.
“Hey Sven, when you’re on TV, you look different, right?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“So CM loosing a bunch of weight, having scribbly eyes, and a lower jaw that looks like a thumb would be normal?”
“Yeah, of course. Just look at Ronaldo, you think he looks like that in real life?”
Ronaldo always smiled and played sports in his commercials, “Sort of, but he’s angrier in person.”
Steve shook his head, “He’s not really a clown.”
The time on my cell phone read 9:30. “I need to see that story.” Realizing that alone might give away some clue to my alter ego, I added, “To see what Condiment Man’s been up to.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see it too,” said Steve, scraping the last bit of ketchup onto his final fry.
Once he finished his fries and ketchup, we tossed our trash, waved to the one who is probably not Max, and exited to begin the walk to Steve’s house. Outside though, the Blue-X guy was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store. When he saw us exit, he perked up and smiled at us.
I returned the smile and, as much as I didn’t want to do it, walked past him without even a glance into his store. A boycott was a boycott, even if he didn’t know it was going on.
We arrived back at Steve’s with some time to spare. Steve flipped on the TV and found CNN, then jumped on the computer to see if he could find any news before the report. I moved a giant foam finger from my usual spot on the floor, sat, and focused my attention on the talking heads on the television to make sure we didn’t miss the story that would help fill me in what had been erased from my memory.
“It looks like Condiment Man’s Realm hasn’t been updated since 2001,” Steve said, not finding any news on the official Condiment Man site. Odd of me to not put anything new on there in the past few years.
My thought process paused while intro music for the 10 o’clock news kicked in. The same newscaster we had seen at Max’s was in a different suit and had a co-anchor to his right.
“Welcome, to The News,” he said. “I’m Tom Spruce, joined tonight by Jan Brookhollow. We begin tonight with a story from New Jersey featuring a young man attempting to change his family’s legacy from toilets, to video games. The 55 and Under Electronic Game Development Contest ended this morning, and the winner was 54-year-old Brandon Crapper. Dave spoke with Brandon earlier this morning.”
The news room cut away to the hallway of the convention center with the hallway decorated with famous video game screenshots hanging on the walls, and a giant banner over the doors which read, “55 and Under Electronic Game Development Contest – Sponsored by Adam Riha Game Studios, Inc.”
Dave was standing with Brandon, a reddish-brown haired man who refused to smile. The camera lights blasted his acne into the focus of attention and hid his eyes in dark shadow. He was dressed in a black t-shirt promoting Soldier, the Kurt Russell movie of the mid-ninety’s. Brandon stood, with arms folded, next to an older, wrinkly man dressed in a brown suit with matching tie who gave a cold smile to Dave and the camera.
“I’m standing here with the award winning Brandon Crapper, who I’m told is suffering through the chicken pox today, and his father Doug. So Brandon, tell me about your game.”
Brandon looked back to his dad, who nodded, “Well, uhh,” Brandon stuttered, looking down at the floor, “It’s like Tetris, only not, because it’s kinda like an action adventure, where, uhh, you have this pendant, only it’s shrouded in mystery, and it gives the main character, like, powers.”
“It is an action/adventure game with puzzle elements,” Doug cut in, “It’s a very unique game where the hero must quest to dungeons with varying themes to learn about a glowing pendant he was given as a child that grants him an amazing ability to launch Robox, or our trademarked name for rows of bricks, at his enemies.”
“So, Brandon, how did you come up with the name, Robox?” asked the reporter.
“Well,” said Brandon, “I just started thinking one day while looking around the internet-”
Brandon’s dad cut him off, “He looked around the internet for ancient objects that inspire both a feeling of mystery and tied in with bricks. Robox is what he came up with.”
“What was your motivation in combining these very different genres, action/adventure and puzzle, in this unique way?”
“Well, my dad-”
“I told him to design a game he would want to play,” blurted Doug, cutting off Brandon, “This is what he came up with.”
“Your dad made the game for you!” yelled Steve at the TV.
I chimed in, “Yeah, stop showing this whiny kid and get on with the CM story!”
“So what got you interested in making video games?”
“Well, our last name is Crapper, which, because of my great grandpa, is another name for a toilet. He did something to make it flush better, so now that’s all anyone thinks of when they hear my last name. I need to use my young age to win gaming awards and become the best game designer. Me and my dad hope that one day I’ll be famous and when someone says Crapper, they’ll think games.”
“He just wants to follow in his old man’s footsteps,” Doug added, “unfortunately, I’m past my prime, and my excellent games are hardly noticed.”
“Can you tell me about the next game you plan on making?”
Brandon perked up, “Yeah! It’s called SoLdier: CouNter Strike, and is like Counter-Strike except you play as SoLdier Todd, who is like Soldier Todd. Anyway, Todd is the sweetest hero ever with big guns and even bigger muscles that you can use in the game to kill these evil guys that are running around.”
“It still needs to be refined to include unique features to break new ground in the first person shooter genre, or it may be put on hold for a new project,” said Brandon’s dad.
“No it won’t! This game’s gonna be next! And as Todd, you can’t get shot, because Todd is so awesome and quick he can dodge bullets like in the Matrix, and his bullets always hit the enemies, because he has the best aim ever. My mom and little brother are helping with the voices. My dad kinda sees it as a waste of time and effort, and my mentor wishes I focused more on my Arby’s career, but I love Counter-Strike and Soldier so much, I have to make a game that uses the same engine and characters from the movie.”
“Thank you Doug, and congratulations Brandon on your big win.”
The newscast cut back to Tom in the newsroom, “Our next story for the evening is about a superhero by the name of Condiment Man who is giving condiments to those who need them. With more on this story, we go live to Rick Alpine who is with this amazing hero.”
“Live! It can’t be live!” my gaze shot to Steve, who had one of those, ‘If you could only see the look on your face’ looks.
The newscast cut to Rick, standing in a trench coat with a CNN microphone. “Thanks, Tom. A few weeks ago, a hero calling himself Condiment Man started checking in on New Jersey eaters, making sure they had plenty of ketchup, mustard, and barbecue sauce for their fast food orders.”
The camera zoomed out a bit and panned slightly to the left. Hovering a few feet off the ground was Condiment Man staring at the camera with the same fist-like face and scribbly blue eyes. He was short, only a foot or so tall, and his limbs hung limply from their sockets.
“I’m outside the McDougles with Condiment Man today to get to know this super hero.” Rick faced the imposter and continued, “Condiment Man, what is it you’re fighting for?”
Rick held the microphone to Condiment Man and the camera zoomed slowly in. Condiment Man stayed focused on the camera, and his thumb-like jaw moved disturbingly off from his disembodied voice. “I have come from a far off planet were pickles grow like water flows and ketchup is a beverage had with every meal. My father, Lord Mustard von Relish of Mayonnaisia, sent me here to defeat the vile Dr. Salamander the salamander and his legions of Loafs of Bread and relentless Hot Dog Bun Militia. Dr. Salamander wishes to have all of the condiments for himself, the madman! Condiments should be for the use of all! That is why I hang out outside your fast food locations, to ensure every person has more than enough of the condiments they crave to Spice Up Your Life!”
There was something strange about this guy, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. “Wait, pause it Steve.”
The TiVo announced with a pleasant popping sound that the show was paused.
I moved closer to the television to examine the televised Condiment Man, and noticed something coming off of his head. “Hey Sven, look at that,” I pointed to the strange growth coming from his head to off screen.
Steve climbed out of the computer chair and moved next to the screen, “What? That? I think he’s always had that.”
“Really? Well keep looking at it, I need to go to the restroom.” I speed walked across his basement, shutting myself in the bathroom to become Condiment Man.
When I re-entered the bedroom, Steve was again on the computer looking over my AOL site.
“Condiment Man!” said Steve, “How’d you get here so fast, you were just in New Jersey!”
“No, that is some kind of imposter. Did you look at his head? There is some kind of growth there,” I pointed again at the TV.
“Hoj was saying something about that before he ran off to urinate. I was looking around online for pictures of you, but most of them are computer drawings or pictures of your car. I’m not sure if that’s you on TV or not.”
I sighed, looking back to the imposter frozen on the screen. “Can we play it?”
Steve picked up the remote, and with a popping sound the TiVo started playing again.
The camera panned quickly over to Rick, who was wearing a larger than life smile. “Glad to have you protecting us Condiment Man. Before we go back to Tom in the newsroom, the burger I ordered doesn’t have any mustard, could I trouble you for a packet?”
“Of course!” Condiment Man flew off the left side of the screen, his limp body flowing behind his head. He reappeared shortly thereafter with four mustard packets bulging from the bottom of his head. He whipped up, the left side of his head opened up, and the packets flew across the screen to Rick who was unable to catch but one packet.
“Thanks Condiment Man! That’s much more than enough for just one burger. Back to you, Tom, I have a burger to eat.”
“He’s… He’s… He’s wasting condiments!” echoed off the walls, drenched with anger. It was then I realized my fists were clenched and I was walking past the bathroom for the exit.
“Wait!” came from behind me.
I turned, Cow Defender stood behind me.
“You may need my help.”
It was a two-hour flight in the Condiment Plane to the Jersey McDougles the other Condiment Man was filmed outside of. Even in the darkness of midnight, the place was easy to find, since there are so few McDougles’s in this state. The cool glow of the 24-hour restaurant and the dozens of parking lot lights lit the area like it was twelve hours earlier.
I scanned the ground for discarded sauce packets, but they weren’t here. Cow Defender started on a second pass, hoping we had missed them, but I knew it was hopeless.
Maybe someone in the McDougles saw someone, or at the very least could point me toward the other Condiment Man. When I entered, those that saw me wouldn’t take their eyes off of me, and guided their eating partners to do the same. It was an odd experience to have a dining room full of chubby citizens watching your every move.
“I am not the imposter!” I declared to the room, “But I am looking for him. Have any of you seen him, or the one who took the condiments from the parking lot?”
Blank stares were my reply. What made them even creepier was that the owners of the stares continued to eat, not looking down at their treys. The employees weren’t much help either, as they too had their wide unflinching eyes trained on me.
“Why’s it so quiet around here!” came a voice from the food prep area. A clown followed close behind, who followed his employee’s eyes to me, standing off to the side of the lobby. It was an older Ronaldo carrying a tennis racquet and wearing a headband. “I don’t have time for this right now Condiment Man.”
“Time for what?”
“My Bakery Fresh Bread isn’t trying to steal your ketchup, and salamanders are a health hazard, so if there’s one in your pocket, take it outside.”
“No, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not giving condiments to those in the drive-thru, just like you asked.”
“You’re not giving out condiments!” I flew across the sticky floor to the register, “I don’t know what this imposter is telling you about amphibians and klepto bread, but you’d better start giving condiments to people, unless you want this location to vanish like the one in Rosana Square!”
Ronaldo didn’t flinch. “I thought something was different about you recently, less annoying. In fact, I’d rather have this imposter around than you. A salamander I can deal with, but you fighting my customers again? That just can’t happen anymore.”
“I’m sorry, but you don’t have a say in this. Someone here knows where the imposter is, and you’re going to tell me right now!” I turned to find the mass of zombified fast food eaters gathered around me, devouring me with their glazed wide eyes.
“Gnaa,” said an overweight man dressed in sweatpants and black grease-stained shirt printed with a wolf howling at the moon.
“Now we’re making some progress,” I said, walking over to the man. “Where’s the imposter? Where’s the other Condiment Man?”
He backed away, agitated, “Gnaa! Gnaa!” He stumbled over a two-seat table, catching himself before hitting the ground. The man quickly stood and hobbled through the doorway and into the drive-thru lane, causing a driver to slam on her breaks to avoid hitting him.
The man froze in the lane, his stare once again fixed on me.
The lady in the car looked annoyed. Her face was filled with disgust at the corpulent pile of flesh blocking her path. She looked into the rear view mirror just in time to see an SUV pull up to the window right behind her. Without so much as a second thought she jumped on the horn, blaring that horrible screech in one long, continuous note.
The lump didn’t jump, didn’t block his ear, didn’t blink his eyes. It was as if his world existed of only the object it was focused on, and that unfortunately was me.
Giving the lady an apologetic shrug, I moved toward the sweatpants man, hoping he’d move from the lady’s path.
He didn’t budge.
I tried nudging him, but it didn’t work. I stepped back, unsure of how to move this object from the roadway. The lady realized she wasn’t moving for a while and let up on the horn. She looked around briefly, then set the car in park and dove into her McDougles bag. She came up after a second or two, realizing she had no ketchup for her Crazysized fry.
I moved toward the lady’s window with my hand headed toward the ketchup compartment on my belt, but Mr. Sweatpants grabbed my arm. I pulled back, but he didn’t let go. I threw my weight into pulling loose of his salted greasy grip, but he didn’t even sway.
“You’re preventing a gift of condiments!” I yelled. “Let me do my job or you’ll soon find yourself on the wrong end of some condiment justice!”
He refused. Well, he not so much refused as didn’t let go.
With tears welling in my eyes as the woman became increasingly desperate, I reared back for a kick to his head.
“Time to Spice Up Your Life!” came a disembodied cry from across the parking lot. I froze.
The woman in the car looked through the passenger side window to see the foot tall imposter Condiment Man flying toward her with his limbs flapping behind him. As he neared, I could see that the growth from the side of his head was the arm of a middle-aged man, connected to a middle-aged man running across the parking lot.
“What sort of conjoined twinnery is this?”
The older man, dressed in jeans and a Soldier t-shirt with Kurt Russell sporting an angry glare toward an explosion stopped at the passenger door and the imposter flew just inside. “What condiments would Spice Up Your Life?” said the man and the imposter lip-synched.
“Ketchup, please,” said the woman, now glad she had stayed.
Condiment Man flew from the car to jam his head in a bag in the older man’s right hand. He emerged a few seconds later with his head full of ketchup packets which he flung into the woman’s car. Packets landed on the passenger chair, on the floor, and in the back seat, and the woman eagerly picked the two within arm’s reach and dropped them into her McDougles bag.
“Thanks Condiment Man!” she said, then started driving off.
It was then I realized the McDougles zombie had gone back inside. “Wait! That’s too many packets!” I ran after her for a few steps, but I wasn’t able to catch her. I turned to the real waster who was dashing back across the parking lot, the imposter Condiment Man.
“You are not Condiment Man!” I yelled at the duo while in pursuit.
The older man glanced at me over his shoulder then continued toward the tree line. Condiment Man flapped lifelessly along with the older man’s pumping arms. As he neared the trees, there was a snapping sound high in the tree before him, and Cow Defender flew toward the ground holding a branch. The older man broke his fall.
“Ow,” said Cow Defender.
I caught up to them just as Cow Defender was rolling off of the older man. “What were you doing up in that tree?”
“No time to tell you now,” and he ran off across the lot.
The older man rolled over to his back and used the inside of Condiment Man’s head to massage the pain away in his right bicep.
“Like I was saying, you are not Condiment Man,” pointing to the limp imposter, then to myself, “I am.”
The pimply, wrinkled old man stopped rubbing and looked up at me, eyes wide. “I saw you on Google! You and Condiment Man are different though, so you can both save people.” The hand re-formed into Condiment Man’s head, and the older man nodded at it.
“We are different, I give condiments to people, you waste them. I bring people joy, you bring a dark cloud to the name Condiment Man!” I grabbed the imposter’s body, squeezing it like the beanbag it felt like, “You are an imposter consorting with the enemy!”
“No, no!” screamed the older man through Condiment Man, “I’m not an imposter. I’m genuine Condiment Man. Sent by my father, Lord Mustard von Relish of Mayonnaisia, before our planet exploded and the condiment packets that formed it were shot out into the vastness of space. Oddly enough, the majority landed here on your planet. My quest is to ensure everyone has more condiments than they could ever need, and to do that I must defeat the evil Dr. Salamander and his legions of Loafs of Bread and the relentless Hot Dog Militia.”
“Your enemies don’t even have anything to do with condiments, and the real enemy, Ronaldo, you told to stop giving ketchup to people so you could gain some false glory! I like that you want to give condiments to people, but you can’t tell a fast food place to stop giving ketchup out, and you can’t give people more than they need. If you don’t stop, you will be punished. And, so people don’t confuse us, you need to change your name to something else. Maybe Mustard Master, or King of Ketchup.”
“What? I have to change his name!” said the older man.
“Well, yeah. If people are in need of someone to save them from a real villain, they should be sure they’re not getting you when they look Condiment Man up in the yellow pages.”
“Just like CouNter Strike,” he muttered. “Fine, I’ll change it.”
“You’re that game designer on the news, Crapper, right?”
He perked up, “Yeah! My dad was right, a big win and already the Crapper name is moving away from toilets!”
“You from Mayonnaisia too?”
“What? Pfft. No, New Jersey.”
“Then how did you become joined to CM there?”
“I have been joined to Brandon since birth,” said Brandon through the imposter. “We share every organ, so separating us is unfortunately impossible.”
“Hey! Do you want to come over to my parent’s house? I can show you the games I’ve been working on! I have some drawings of Todd blowing up bad guys,” he pointed to his shirt, “and fighting Darth Vader. There’s lava and fire and explosions and huge muscles in my drawings, my mom always hangs them on the fridge. Todd is the coolest guy ever, and Soldier has got to be my favorite movie of all time, because Todd is so strong. I love Soldier so much that I’m making a game following its story. The game is Counter-Strike, only as Todd. It’s completely original.”
“Yeah, Soldier is a great one,” dripping with sarcasm, “but I have some things to do. Maybe next time.”
Brandon’s face fell from pure excitement to the annoyed lack of emotion Steve and I saw on the newscast. The imposter Condiment Man unraveled his head into a hand and scratched Brandon’s cheek, “Yeah, I guess my rash is acting up.”
“Condiment Man!” screamed a familiar voice from across the parking lot.
“What?” said Brandon through the imposter, and I said in unison.
Cow Defender was running full speed across the parking spaces toward us. Behind him, a man in a white lab coat carrying what looked like a pistol struggled to keep up with the defender of cows.
“Run!” yelled Cow Defender.
I didn’t flinch.
“Aren’t we going to run?” said Brandon.
The scientist stretched his pistol-holding arm in my direction and took aim. He fixed his site on me as he closed the distance.
Cow Defender tripped over something I couldn’t see and fell to the ground. The scientist fell over him, firing his weapon as he went down.
A blue beam shot toward me, but went slightly wide, hitting the imposter squarely in the face.
“Gwuaa!” shouted Brandon on his way to the ground.
Cow Defender pulled himself from under the scientist and began running toward me. Within seconds he had caught up, and together we sprinted off into the woods. Jumping out of the way of trees, and plowing through the thick underbrush, I tired quickly. I started to wheeze and had to slow to a quick jog. A short distance later, I jumped behind a tree to hide; Cow Defender did the same.
It didn’t sound like the scientist was following us. I peered around the tree to find our pursuer, but he didn’t enter the forest. The scientist stood over Brandon and the imposter writing on his clipboard. After a few moments, a white van pulled up along side the scientist, and the back flew open. Two men dressed in black jumped out, heaved Brandon into the back, then the men and the scientist jumped in and the van sped away.
Breathing heavily, I slumped to the forest floor. Cow Defender came over, squatting next to me, “That gun, it blasts away your memory. I don’t think you’ll be seeing much more of that Condiment Man.”
So that’s what happened before I woke up in the Sprint campus. “Was The “Waster” around?” I asked, making air quotes for Waster.
“Now that you mention it, I think I did see him. Yeah, he was talking with one of the scientists about that other Condiment Man. I didn’t hear much though; I was on the trail of a lost cow.”
I stood, “I sure hope the imposter isn’t working with The “Waster”,” then made air quotes for Waster, “It would make sense, since he doesn’t care about wasted condiments. It’s bad enough “Waster”’s working with the scientists,” making air quotes once again, and headed back to the Condiment Plane.
After a few hours in the plane, we touched down outside Steve’s house. The autopilot tested the machinery again, and powered off.
“Oh, I’m sorry CD. I should have dropped you off at your garage.”
“No problem at all CM, there were a few things I needed to look into around here anyway.”
We stepped from the plane, and Cow Defender and I parted ways. The sun was rising over the trees to the east of Steve’s house, and the darkness was being taken over by the light. I re-entered Steve’s house through the still unlocked front door, and silently made my way to the basement bathroom where Hoj was supposed to be.
I made it in undetected, and quickly swapped clothes. When I opened the door, Steve was standing before me with half of his hair standing on end and his eyes red and watering.
“You been in there long enough,” he moaned, “and you forgot to flush.”
“Oh yeah,” I spun and flushed the empty bowl, then exited while the bowl refilled “Any word on the other CM?”
“Condiment Man came by while you were in the bathroom and said it wasn’t him on TV. The other CM is on the news right now holding a press conference.”
“Really,” I said, hardly containing my grin.
Steve and I walked into his room and stood around his television. The imposter hovered behind a microphone attached to a podium. I could hardly make out Brandon’s arm coming off of his head.
“I wanted to tell you of some condiment news I found,” said the imposter, his voice sounding distant despite his mouth being inches from the microphone. He continued, “A woman visited a fast food restaurant, and was forced to dial 911 because they were trying to charge her for extra condiment packets. It is my duty as CONdiment MAN to make sure you have more than enough condiments for your foods, so you can Spice Up Your Life!”
Camera flashes erupted, and the reporters started calling out to ask a question.
“Condiment Man,” said a reporter, “Was it you that put that story on Wikipedia?”
“I’m not sure. It could have been,” the imposter replied.
“From the logs I was able to obtain from the site, it was put there by condimentman months ago. Any comment?”
“There’s only one CONdiment MAN!”
“That Crapper!” I screamed, running back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind me.
“Can I at least take out my contacts first?” pleaded Steve, but I was already changed into my CM gear.
“Sorry,” I said, looking the ceiling over for a way to exit undetected.
“Condiment Man? Is that you?”
I forgot how citizens hear different voices depending on how I’m dressed. Frantically, I searched for a way out, but there was none to be found. I opened the door to a shocked Steve. “Yes citizen, it is I, Condiment Man!”
“What happened to Hoj?”
“He’s,” I looked back into the bathroom, “hiding. I was doing the same, until I saw he needed to use the bathroom for other things.”
“Why were you hiding in my bathroom at 7am?”
Good question. “Research! But I must continue it in New Jersey, where a youngish man thinks different capitalization is a different name.” I dashed upstairs through Steve’s house to the Condiment Plane, leaving my friend searching the bathroom, unable to use it until he finds someone not there.
I landed in the parking lot of the McDougles once again. This time, it was more difficult to find a parking space for a plane, what with all the customer’s cars and all. The autopilot managed to only ding one car door, and we were lucky to find another spot across the lot.
I stepped from the plane, taking the surroundings in with daylight. The McDougles was at the corner of two busy streets. Shopping centers filled the area around the intersection with buildings older than exist around Overland Park. The streets and sidewalks were cracked, with grass growing from every seam in the pavement.
The forest Cow Defender and I ran into last night looked more like eight pine trees in a line, which made me wonder if the scientist was after us at all last night. He had to have seen us. Beyond the trees, where Brandon and the imposter emerged from the night before, stood an old looking school building with well-manicured lawn and patches of trees lining the campus. A kid dressed in a black shirt and jeans walked across the street from the school to a Giant, which I took to be the Jersey equivalent of a Price Chopper. Perhaps Jersey has an equivalent to an Akmed, and I made my way across the street.
Inside the Giant were the usual islands of produce, isles of food products that haven’t yet made it to the Midwest, and a line of cash registers. With high hopes, I made my way to the check stands.
The cashiers all looked friendly enough, though they all reminded me of the standard for mediocrity, Brian. In fact, one of them was Brian. He talked a bit with a customer piling cans of soup on the conveyer belt. In usual Brian fashion, he was acting pleasant, but not exceptional in any area.
The customer placed a loaf of Iron Kids bread on the conveyer, followed by a twelve pack of eggs, a bottle of ketchup, and some lunchmeat. With his cart empty, he stepped up to the credit card reader and pulled his wallet from his back pocket while the conveyer pulled his selections with him.
“Spice Up Your Life!” came a familiar voice from the customer service desk. Brandon with the imposter with additional capitalization and a relish stain on his shirt came bounding toward the customer working with Brian and jumped on the conveyer with the grace of a belly flop, smashing the eggs. “One of the Loafs of Bread is attempting to steal your ketchup!”
The man watched with a disgusted look as CONdiment MAN plunged face first into the top of his loaf of bread, then writhed around to make sure every last slice was squashed into a doughy mess.
“May the ketchup always Spice Up Your Life!” shouted Brandon through CONdiment MAN, and the two of them bounced off the conveyer to the floor, then off into the store.
“Stop imposter!” I screamed, taking off after them. The lack of sleep was starting to get to me, and my legs were getting heavier the more I pushed myself. I followed him down the front of the store toward the frozen food section, passing lines of confused shoppers on my left. My cape flapped heroically behind as I grabbed an end cap to aid my turn down one of the final isles.
Brandon was already at the far end of the isle with loafs of bread covering the floor digging every last bread bag from the shelves. Each bag would get a stomp from his tennis shoe or a full body squash from CONdiment MAN.
“Imposter!” I screamed while wading through the bread, “I said stop!”
“Imposter? I don’t think so,” panted Brandon. “We changed his name to CONdiment MAN, and he’s different from you. It’s trademarked too, so even the government says you and CONdiment MAN are different.”
“You can’t trademark a person, maybe patent.”
“Why don’t you just leave him alone,” said a man behind me. When I turned toward the voice, I found the owner to be a plump forty-something with a shaved balding head. “He’s gonna be a great game designer when he grows up, so stop picking on him.”
Ignoring him, I turned back to Brandon, who was gone. Every last slice of bread was tossed to the ground and squashed into a useless mess. I looked back at the balding man with a look of disgust, then walked past him, making sure my shoulder collided with his as I passed.
“Condiment Man, where do you think you’re going!” shouted a member of Giant management as she pushed her way through a checkout lane.
Confused, I didn’t answer.
“C’mon, you know our deal. You can kill the evil bread gang or whatever, as long as you clean up after yourself before you leave.”
“Giant lady,” came coldly from me, “you have confused me with a bread fighting pretender. The Condiment Man you’re after capitalizes his name differently, and is trying to escape at this very moment.”
“You’re Condiment Man?” she asked.
“Yes! And he’s CONdiment MAN.”
She took a moment to think, then said sternly, “That’s the same thing!”
“That’s what I said!” and I started to leave.
She grabbed my arm as I passed, “It’s the same thing. You are Condiment Man, so you’re cleaning the isle before you leave.”
The anger built inside the more I came to realize there was no way to convince her I wasn’t the stupid imposter, and I reached the breaking point when I noticed Brandon slinking next to the flying imposter through the exit doors unnoticed. Lowering my head, I whispered, “Fine,” and turned to face the destroyed bread isle and the bald guy, who was now filled to the brim with excitement.
Continuing the spin, I was once again facing the manager, only now I was sprinting for the exit. Pushing her to the side into a stacked display of Pepsi cubes, I took off for the exit. Brian and I made eye contact for a brief moment, during which he made a few steps to block my path, but gave up when he realized he lacked the capacity to catch me.
Once outside, I jogged across the parking lot searching for a sign of Brandon or CONdiment MAN. They stood in front of a news crew spewing some nonsense about how he saved the world from a Loaf of Bread invasion. Shaking my head in disgust, I headed toward them to set the record straight about just what he did inside that store, and to let the nation know that this guy on TV is nothing more than an imposter.
When I was about a dozen feet away, my Condiment Sense went off. It was someone close. Spinning quickly away from the interview, I found the citizen in need across the parking lot digging through his Subway bag for a mustard packet. I sprinted to him and handed him the necessary packets, “Here’s some mustard, citizen.”
He looked up, amazed, “Wow. Thanks.”
“All in a day’s work, sir,” I said, looking back to the imposter who was having his hand shook by the reporter. I smiled at the man, “Condiment Man always looks out for those in need.”
With my citizen satisfied, I headed back for my nemesis, but he was gone. I scanned the surroundings, but once I saw the name of the building across the street though, all thoughts of the imposter drained from my mind. In bright gold lettering on an old brick sign surrounded by flowers read, “The “Waster”’s University of Proper Condiment Consumption.” The well-manicured school building I had seen through the trees was my archenemy’s minion training facility, his school for brainwashing the public. It had to be where CONdiment MAN learned his condiment wasting ways.
I looked the building over with fresh eyes knowing the true nature of the building, watching the young men and women relaxing in the shade of a tree with textbooks and notebooks opened before them. People hurried across the campus to arrive on time to their next class, and a chunky man with a small limp body dangling from his left hand rushed up the sidewalk toward the building.
“Brandon!” I screamed, but he didn’t look back. Angry at his non-compliance, I stormed after him. With a little jaywalking and some sidewalk running I was inside the school. The entry way was unimpressive, just a small sign welcoming me to the university and a nearly empty display case decorated the place. A corridor stretched out in front of me lined on both sides with open doorways and the occasional picture on the wall. There was also a winding staircase to my left with a thick old railing.
I decided to tackle the hallway first. I crept slowly down the empty halls, half expecting some sort of trap to spring from a pressure panel beneath a floor tile. When I made my way to the first room, a lecture was going on inside.
“So these are the competing theories of condiment usage,” said the professor, “What do you all think?” There was a short pause, “Jackie.”
“Well, condiments are around so everyone can enjoy them, so we should be able to enjoy them how we want. Some of us like a lot, some not as much. I don’t think we should be forced to use only what society says is the proper amount. Some of us like more than what societal norms dictate, and if we can’t finish it all, we shouldn’t feel guilty. I guess I tend toward the Satisfaction Theory, because waste just happens sometimes.”
“Yes, very good. Bill, you had something to say?”
“Yeah, I wanted to say something about what Jackie said. I agree that condiments should be around for everyone to use, but we shouldn’t go around wasting ketchup for no good reason, so I’d say I’m more on the Fair Use side. See, once on my birthday, when I was a kid, this guy was using too much ketchup on his fries at McDougles. If someone wouldn’t have stopped him, there wouldn’t have been any ketchup for me and my friends.”
“Really?” said the professor, a bit disgusted, “This man really would have used all the ketchup in the building?”
“Well…” said Bill.
“This discussion debating proper condiment use has gone on far enough!” I screamed while jumping into the doorway. “This condiment waster little Bill is talking about certainly could have used every last drop of precious ketchup as broth in his French fry soup, but that is not at all the point here. The point is that no drop of ketchup, mustard, mayo, or of any other condiment can be wasted. Wasting any at all opens the door for flavorless food, which leads to sadness, depression, and crime that no inner city Smile Van can correct. So Jackie, get used to your guiltful life in fear of my vengeance because I will be watching you. And professor, you should be ashamed for filling the minds of these empty vessels with your misguided thoughts on condiment consumption. There is only one way to ensure everyone can enjoy flavorful food, and that is mine.”
With the room defeated I spun and continued creeping down the hallway in search of the differently capitalized imposter and his Soldier obsessed companion, Brandon. I peered into the next classroom, finding the students learning about the spreadablities of some of the more popular condiments. I watched as the professor calculated on the dry erase board how much surface area a packet of Heinz ketchup can spread while ensuring proper flavoring and texture.
“Excellent, continue,” I said to the professor, then continued down the hall. The next few rooms didn’t have classes in session and were filled only with desks, but the final room in the hallway did have voices floating from it.
Inside the final room stood Cyrus, Hoj’s college German class archenemy, professing to the class. He was clad in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the top two buttons left undone by his neck. His dark hair was spiked in a purposely-accidental way, where I could tell he took great care in making it look as though he didn’t.
“Let’s face it,” Cyrus trumpeted, “there are those out there that are fanatical in their condiment beliefs, and some of them may try to impose their beliefs on you through the use of force. Today, we’re going to discuss a few case studies and analyze someone who just wants to enjoy the plentiful condiments our country offers, and a fanatic trying to control how this person uses these condiments, then we’ll discuss the interaction of these two in detail. We’ll begin our discussion with a case study from a few years ago about an interaction in McDougles.”
That felt like a good time to make an entrance, and I stepped inside the classroom. Cyrus stopped talking, placed his textbook on his notes on the table at the front of the classroom, and grinned. “It appears we have a visitor.”
“How a person uses condiments is up to the individual. When that individual decides to waste, hoard, or prevent another from the joy condiments provide, then someone needs to take action. I, Condiment Man, am just that superheroic someone.”
“You broke the hip of a grandmother who wasted a little barbecue sauce, haven’t you?” said Cyrus, starting to pace.
“The evil XStcher0418, of course.”
“And you once destroyed an entire colony of ants, just because they didn’t take all of the ketchup you yourself gave them?”
That was one I didn’t remember. Was that something that happened recently, or was it something the imposter did, trying to fight the bread monsters. “I don’t remember.”
“Don’t remember, or don’t want this classroom to despise you?” Cyrus waved his hand in front of the class, and they looked back for my answer with anger and disbelief in their eyes.
“I,” I stuttered, “I, really don’t remember. My memory of the past few years was wiped away by the evil scientists.”
“You were my hero!” screamed a girl in the front corner of the room with tears pouring from her eyes, “You’re why I went to this school!” She stood and stormed past me into the hallway.
“Face it, people want to use condiments as they wish, and if that means they waste a few drops now and then, then that is just too bad. If that’s how we choose to enjoy our ketchup, then why should a fanatic, who would break an old woman’s hip, toss a middle aged man over a counter, and kill an entire colony of ants, tell us what to do?”
The rage dripped in drops of sweat from my brow. The students shook their heads at me in disgusted disbelief; they were giving up on me for Cyrus and The “Waster”. “In case you forgot, The “Waster” is evil,” I declared, making air quotes for Waster, “a supervillian of the highest degree. He once organized school children to destroy condiment factories, he developed a microwave that would fry every last drop of condiment within a ten mile radius, and he has something to do with this imposter running around,” I declared, making air quotes for Waster. “Of course I would fight anyone abusing the condiments that give life to otherwise bland foods, be them old, young, or middle aged. It is my duty to make sure everyone has the necessary packets to enjoy their meal.”
Cyrus walked to the window, looking out at the wooded area, and the McDougles past it. “Class, you are dismissed. Read the case studies and know them well, there may be a quiz next class period.”
The students gathered their texts and notebooks, then filed from the classroom.
“You probably don’t remember me, but I worked part-time as a minion in “Waster”’s Japanese factory back in high school,” said Cyrus, making air quotes for Waster. “Part of an exchange program I was involved in. I figured if I could help bring down the great Condiment Man, it’d be the perfect resume padding that could land me a corner office one day. I studied you’re every move, trying to figure out just what makes you tick so I could design the perfect way to bring you down.” Cyrus turned back to me, “I figured it out. The plan is underway. It is only a matter of time now, and your superheroic reign will be over and my position at Hunt’s will be guaranteed.”
“Cyrus, I wish I could thwart your plan right now, but I have an imposter to find,” I stepped into the hall and started walking toward the stairs near the entryway.
“Condiment Man,” shouted Cyrus into the hallway, “Spend the last of your time wisely.”
At the top of the stairs a single door was labeled library in an etched gold plate, which I hesitated before opening. Behind this door was going to be my most arch of enemies, The “Waster”, and the annoying Brandon Crapper with the imposer CONdiment MAN. If this were a video game not designed by Brandon, beyond this door would be the boss battle. I scanned the area for power-ups, but unfortunately there were none.
With a sweaty palm, I turned the handle and burst into the room. Shelves of books ran the length of the room, most likely the vast majority using flawed logic to persuade the students here that wasting is somehow preferred to using condiments like a civilized being. The worktables directly in front of me were covered in a mess of art supplies and notebooks full of scribbled notes. Covering the bulletin board usually covered in local band performances and campus news were instead covered in crayon drawings of Todd, Brandon’s favorite Soldier, that looked like they had been drawn by a six year old. A shirtless man with rows of muscles towering over his head stood in the middle of a fire, and explosions filled the rest of the notebook paper.
“Hey Condiment Man!” said Brandon walking up to me, “check out this one!” He held up a picture of Todd grabbing hold of Darth Vader’s light saber with his bare hands, which too looked like it had been drawn by someone much younger than the young man standing before me. Holding half the page in his mouth, was CONdiment MAN staring at the ceiling.
I followed his gaze, but saw nothing but rows of dropped ceiling tiles. “Like I was trying to tell you in the store, changing how a few letters are capitalized doesn’t make your name different from mine. Even the manager at the supermarket couldn’t figure out how you and I were different.”
CONdiment MAN released the awful drawing from his mouth and his head reformed, “She’s an idiot.” Brandon continued speaking through the imposter, “That woman makes me pay, pay, for each Loaf of Bread henchman I save her store from. I’m a superhero, I shouldn’t pay for defeating villains.”
“But you’re squishing loaves of bread. They’re not evil, they don’t even move.”
“You saw that Bread member trying to run off with that ketchup at the Giant! Bread isn’t supposed to have condiments, people are.”
“A loaf of bread can’t own anything because it’s not alive! You’re the one setting people up to waste condiments, and you didn’t even help that guy with the Subway! If you want to be a hero, you have some work to do, and you need to start by actually changing your name to something else, with different letters this time!”
“That’s all you ever do!” Brandon crossed his arms and stuck his lip out, “You just yell at me all the time! Change your name, stop giving condiments to people.” His face turned bright red as he shrieked, “I DID CHANGE MY NAME!!”
Brandon took a few steps back and looked the hero attached to his hand in the eyes, who added, “And The Waster paid for me to trademark my name, I can’t change it now.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Waster,” said Brandon through CONdiment MAN.
“The Waster?,” then it hit me, “Do you mean The “Waster”?” I said, making air quotes for Waster.
“You’re stupid!! LEAVE US ALONE!” Brandon screamed, his face bright red. CONdiment MAN flew back, then quickly forward slamming headfirst into my cheek.
Caught off guard, I took a step left to stay on my feet while the sting pulsed across my face. Brandon appeared stunned at what had just happened, and CONdiment MAN gave the same blank stare as always.
The pain quickly faded as I said, “You allow, and promote, others to waste condiments. You will not be left alone until you are defeated. Would you like that to happen tonight?”
CONdiment MAN flew up, and Brandon jumped to give him more height, then dove head first at me.
I jumped to the right, rolled once on the tile floor, and kneeled to watch the imposter slam through a table with a loud crackling sound.
Splinters scattered around the destruction, and Brandon appeared to be in pain. CONdiment MAN flew from the woodpile and hovered over it while Brandon massaged the imposter’s head with his other hand.
Unsure of how to fight a quadriplegic flying alien joined to a human hand, I lunged at CONdiment MAN with as much force as I could muster, grabbed Brandon’s wrist, and drove the imposters head into the tile floor with a louder than expected cracking sound.
“AHHH!” screamed Brandon.
The skull bones of CONdiment MAN seemed to be out of place, he had a strange lump poking out between his eye sockets, and the index finger that usually makes up one side of his face was bent at the first knuckle toward the other fingers. The side of his head opened up into a hand, and Brandon started trying to assist the imposter’s escape from my grasp.
“Let go!” he squealed.
Complying, I grabbed hold of CONdiment MAN’s chest with one hand, and released Brandon’s wrist with the other. The imposter’s body was squishy inside his felt clothes, it almost felt like he was full of beans and cotton.
Tears streamed down Brandon’s bright red face making his puffy cheeks shine under the fluorescent university lighting. He again pulled to get his arm back, but again he couldn’t pull loose.
I tightened my grip on CONdiment MAN to not lose him while letting Brandon free.
“LET GO!” he shrieked, yanking once again to free himself from the imposter. Brandon toppled backwards onto the file floor, then rolled onto his side to nurse the pain from his wrist, and probably to pick the beads that now lay everywhere from his wound.
It felt as though CONdiment MAN was deflating, and when I looked down I saw he was. My hands were wrapped tightly around his decapitated body, and small brown beads spilled from his neck and spread across the floor. I watched as they bounced from the neck of the fallen imposter across the room.
I stood, leaving CONdiment MAN on the floor, and beads dropped from the folds in my hands to the floor. Brandon was still curled in a ball, whimpering. I didn’t know whether to console him for the death of the alien that grew out his hand, or fight him for allowing the alien to encourage people to waste packets of condiments.
“Brandon, get up,” came a gruff voice from the doorway. It was The “Waster” with furrowed brow and a sneer.
Brandon did as he was told. His face was wet with tears, and snot ran from his nose to just below his right ear.
The “Waster” shook his head, “Leave.”
Looking at the ground, Brandon walked slowly between me and my archenemy, then slinked through the door.
“I know you’re looking for a fight, but even if you win, it won’t shut my school down.” He moved to the table that had been smashed by Brandon, picking from the splintered wood one of Brandon’s Soldier drawings, “Besides, you have something more immediate to deal with.” He crumpled the picture and tossed it at my feet.
It bounced across the floor, coming to rest on the imposter remains an inch or so from my foot. My Condiment Sense went off, something was going on back in Overland Park, but for some reason, I couldn’t tell what.
The “Waster” grinned, running his fingers through his wig. “Mwa ha ha haa!”
Comment on Imposter
Extras: Brandon Crapper's Website