"A Flaming Hot Take"

She walks over to the kitchen table, slowly pulls out a chair and becomes absorbed by it, exhausted. After taking some time to vapidly gaze out into space and fiddle with some miscellaneous junk objects on the messy, round table, she looks up at me standing next to the pantry.

“I’m hungry,” she proclaims, barely getting the words out through a drooping face, riddled with fatigue.

I begin rummaging through the pantry: boxed donuts, wasabi and soy sauce almonds, canned soup, the Chef, cereal, and in the very back, neglected and all alone, sits a bag of Flaming Hot Doritos.

I pull them out and present them proudly above my head, “Loooook, I got your favorite.”

There are ulterior motives afoot.

She takes the effort to smile as I bring them over to her and place them on the table in front of her. Crinkles, a hand reaches in forcefully. She pulls out a large handful and stuffs the chips, that can fit, into her mouth. About half make it in, while the excess rain down onto the table.

I wait, observing the ravenous spectacle. I can’t believe it… but I can, “Do those taste ok to you?”

She looks up confused and through a mouthful of chips and a red ring circling her lips, “Yea, why? They’re delicious and I’m starving. What the fuck?”

This is it, it’s my time. I adjust my demeanor for the release and prepare to make the first move.

“They’re five months old!” I blurt out and begin laughing hysterically. “I thought for sure you would notice they were stale… but you didn’t.” This game is becoming old to her. I can tell, but it’s what we would’ve done before when there was normalcy.

She stops eating and glares at me, “Why would you feed me something like this!? Do you want me to fuckin die!?”

I realize the glare is not part of our dance. I should’ve known better than to bring up five months ago. It seems to be the only point in time I ever remember. It doesn’t matter. We need this. I continue.

“But you didn’t notice they were old, or stale because they’re only old. Do you know why,” I can barely handle the anticipation. I’ve been waiting for this since the purchase of the unholy snack, at least I was before sustenance became a full-time job. Hold it together. Act as if it were before The Break.

“No… I don’t. They really taste fine, fresh in fact, but that doesn’t make you less of an asshole,” she pushes the bag away, crosses her arms and pouts. I'd swear it was a genuine reaction.

Here it is. I’m overflowing with the urge to get it off my chest and it’s real. We’re there now.

“Well, they’re not stale, despite being so old because they’re riddled with chemical preservatives. Big chip is trying to poison gamers, stoners, teenagers and hungry drunk people all over the world. It’s a subtle, but very real, plot the shadow NWO, capitalist cronies, drug cartel lords, lobbyists, Wall Street and the MOTHER FUCKIN Rothschilds, probably the military too, are using to slowly thin the population of those they consider to be undesirables. They’re all in on it! What better way to ensure the prolongation of their dominion over the civilized world and common person, creative introverts specifically, than to poison them through a commercially popular snack. They look benign on the shelves, but what you’re buying is spicy powdered, cyanide, corn-chip-death-machines.”

Her entire energy is that of a full-body, eye-roll. It usually takes longer to get her into it, but she’s biting. She knows it’s for our own good.

“Ok… that sounds nuts, but I’ll bite. Why does the deep state want to eradicate neck beards, gamers, stoners, these ‘creative introverts’? Aren’t there more effective ways to accomplish this… plot? I don’t think the Xbox incels are a real threat to the aristocracy and corporate moguls, let alone the actual governments of the world,” she replies earnestly.

I lower my brow and the corners of my lips stretch down to my jawline, “I’ll tell you why. The people that eat Doritos are outside the status quo. How many CEOs and government officials sit down on their Eames couches and eat Doritos out of the bag? None! Let alone the Flaming Hot ones. They’re the most counterculture of all the chips. Now, I’ll preempt the, ‘What about hipsters?’ Well, the hipsters only eat healthy foods and they present the perfect image of progress and humanism, while at the same time being the biggest contributors to the new capitalism they call socialism. Hipsters monetize everything if you hadn’t noticed and they’re conformists. They created the tech companies that use people and their information as a product, without giving them any real compensation except for a new addiction: the addiction to validation through social media. The shadow lords love the hipsters. They want the free thinkers who don’t want to participate in society because they can’t be controlled and they use their own mechanisms against them. They have to thin out the population for when all the world’s resources run out, which is happening faster than they’re telling us. They’re targeting their enemies and they’re winning.”

Ok, that was too close to home. I’m going to fail at the only respite we ever get to enjoy anymore. She’s visibly even more exhausted than before and starts scanning the room. I’m losing her. I opened the veil and I’m losing her.

She lets out a long sigh, “Are you done… Jesus.”

Ok. She’s still going to give it a shot. Don’t mess this up. Our sanity depends on it.

I stand back, arms opened, “Don’t you agree with me!? And no, I’m not done.”

She pushes herself away from the table and stands up, “I do not agree with you. You sound psychotic and even if you were remotely close to,” she mimes air quotes, “…the truth, what would you do about it. You’re wasting my time and yours. Please try to direct your energy toward something productive, or at least, not at me.”

That response was not completely in character. I know she has less of a tolerance for suspending disbelief, but we agreed this is necessary if we’re to go on living in this world. I cannot give up. It’s all we have.

I start pacing around manically, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do!”

I stop and lean in for dramatic effect. We are at least fifteen feet apart at the moment, but I whisper, as if they’re listening through our long dead phones, “I’m gonna take down the whole fuckin thing. One bag at a time, I will eradicate the Doritos before they eradicate my people. I’ll start a hashtag, a call to action. It’ll go viral. I’ll use their own technology against them and my supporters, from far and wide, will heed the call. I’ll start a revolution.”

The nostalgia washes over me. I’m genuinely enjoying this. I wish I could get her there too.

At this point, I realize she has left the room with the Doritos. I shouldn’t have started pacing again, but I need to so I can stay here. There’s only an hour before the scan and I just had it. I tasted it. She can too, but how?

My mind races with too many ideas to separate one from the next and in one last ditch effort I yell into the next room, “And we are NOT a Doritos household anymore!”

…obviously. It was worth a shot, but it’s over now. I barely have the resolve to continue with the charade.

I make my way to the next room where she’s watching an old episode of our favorite animated series, toying with the heart-shaped locket around her neck. To use our stored electricity for an activity such as this would seem frivolous to most, but we decided it was a necessity long ago to hold onto some of the joys of the past. It’s just another exercise. Why even live if there’s no joy to be had. I do wish she’d put the locket away for times like these. It keeps her too grounded in reality.

“Holy shit! Is this new,” I ask. I haven’t completely given up on the roleplay. Maybe it’s a selfish endeavor, but if I can take her away from this shit for one second it’s worth the effort.

She looks up from the sullen, old, but still comfortable couch. The bag of Doritos on the couch to her immediate left. She continues to eat them.

Through crunching mastication I make out, “Yea, it just came out yesterday. I downloaded it.”

Ok, she knows we can’t give up. I’ve never loved her more.

I make my way to the couch and sit next to her, the bag of Doritos between us.

I say our favorite character’s irreverent catch phrase, imitating their voice. She gives me the pity smile without moving her gaze from the TV. She’s heard it a thousand times.

I get comfortable and focus my gaze to the TV too. The intro music plays and without looking, I reach my hand into the bag of Doritos and eat a handful.