Big Taco Big Taco sits alone at the top of the stairs. All the lights on the street have gone out, except for his. And there's only one light on. It's the light at the top of the microwave oven, of which he's kept the door open with thoughts of reheating himself. But alas, he can't quite get himself up to do it.
Twenty five years, wrapped all up in corn flour, and yet he's still just a mountain of seasoned meat and cheese.
The salsa's been gone for a while now. And the lettuce, the lettuce died in 1986. The sour cream has spoiled up walked away.
Big Taco takes a look outside of his window. It's snowy, and gray, and dark around five. He thinks of his glory days, driving the low rider around town in the warm summer afternoons. Lettuce flying in the breeze, sunglasses shading his ripening tomatoes.
Those were they days. Back when everyone wanted to eat him. "Big Taco!" they'd say. "You're so juicy! Let me take a bite out of you!".
Tease that he was, Big Taco never used to let ‘em.
He used to like cars, Big Taco. He used to like cars. But ever since his shell cracked, he hasn't been able to work the clutch like he used to. Sauce drippin' all over the place. Ruins the all-leather interior.
Big Taco, he doesn't remember much about it. He doesn't remember much at all these days, what with his brains leaking out of his shell and all. But he knows it wasn't always like this. He knows there was something better. But for the life of him, he can't remember how.
So Big Taco sits alone at the top of the stairs. He thinks about going to bed, but his sheets are all covered in queso, and he hasn't the energy to clean them up.
Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, if he sticks himself in the microwave, that'll do the trick. Cheese starts to melt, and the taco sauce starts flowing. The shell it will soften, and all will be good.
But how will he open the door form the inside to get out?