|
My team and I were deployed deep in the marshlands of what I was told was called "South F.L." For us, it may as well have been south of everything but Hell.
The teeming humidity ensured that we wouldn't last a week before withering- especially if left on the countertop with the cereal. Our crispy, cheesy-dusted goodness would ensure we become stale rinds; husks of the crunchy corn-chips we used to embody. If only I'd known that day this would prove to be all too true. But we couldn’t worry about that, after all, we had a mission: To infiltrate the rank and queue of the dreaded Rœs-mar’tin, Nocturnal Devourer.
The inconspicuous orange foil of our personnel carrier belied a crack-team of weathered commandos, several of which had seen action at Quinceañeras , pool parties, and school dances – a few of my men had even served time in the couch of a college fraternity for several years. We were as prepared as we would ever be.
11:13am: We sensed the shifting of our transport by the beast’s hammy fingers. The ruse to finagle ourselves into its daily routine had worked, thanks to a cleverly-devised barrage of coupons for Baked Lays distributed to the household around the resource-gathering time of the creature’s maternal feeder. Cooperation with the Publix Corporation, as well as the sacrifice of those brave chips, would ensure our victory on this day.
11:16am: The creature stirs outside of our carrier. We sense we have been tactically stolen away with and deposited in its lair. Its moist paws slide and crinkle the shell, but do not penetrate the bag for fear of violating the savor that must be welling up in its glands. It prefers the freshest kills; the light puff of air pressure in its face as it storms the gates of our foil, inhaling deeply with its porcine nostrils. Duly noted.
11:36am: My men are nervous. For outside of the walls that so thinly separate us from certain consumption, the beast bellows its cacophony of fragments and unnecessarily-pitched assertions at some other entity into some sort of communication device. Our sensors can detect only traces of Bean-Speak, but we have derived that the creature has deemed itself unfit, and seeks to rectify this by visiting some sort of all-hours gymnasium. We all fear for our safety.
11:58am: We have arrived at whatever destination the creature sought for fitness- the tension is building amongst us, for our entire brand's certain doom is at hand should this creature gain an increase in mobility such that gas station parking is no longer a challenge in seeking sustenance. We are within another bag used to house disgusting garments the creature sheds to retain its moisture. A disturbing hush falls over us, for we know the devourer has departed to go exercise- but for how long?
12:04pm: The creature is apparently finished with its routines; the sound of its glistening folds a clear indicator of its duress. Our greatest fears come at the breaking of our gates soon after the creature sets down again- it is hideous. Through the hastily separated void in our foil armour, we can see its ponderous visage, pouring with excitement and delight at its soon-to-be gorging. The first of my comrades died before me, his angles swallowed whole by those enormous, flapping lips, fragments of his frame crumbling upon our startled faces. Johnson had been Dorito recon for 6 months. I hoped that his hardened edges cut the beast's mouth... but even if they did, they proved no impasse toward its avarice, for pieces of Johnson dusted the Rœs-mar'tin's upper lip-fibers...
I can barely bring myself to put to words quite what followed. The rest of the day saw my entire unit wiped out, periodic handfuls at a time. I can still hear the crinkling sound in my head, the horrid crunch of those good chips echoing throughout the increasing vacancy of our carrier. I was only able to deliver this report to my employers because of a narrow escape from the creature’s maw when it nearly steered into oncoming traffic. I spent 3 weeks underneath the driver’s seat of the beast’s late-90s Ford Focus before being swept off in a grocery bag filled with drinking straw wrappers and taco bell receipts; artifacts of victims I would never know. Rumours abound of the creature’s affinity for a certain cured tobacco, and the ensuing carnage that would see the demise of the Baked Lays decoys the Brass had approved of to make our mission possible. This entry is proof that their deaths were not in vain. Frito-Lay has its report, and can better administer the breadth of flavours and marketing tactics to its single, highest bidder: Rœs-mar'tin.
___________________
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
|
