Four hours on the road had done more than leave my stomach gnawing – they’d turned my insides into a demonic orchestra of growls and grumbles. If only I’d known what depths my hunger would lead me to, maybe I’d have packed an emergency granola bar instead of relying on highway billboards for sustenance. Here I was, Good Friday of all days, hurtling down the highway to some faceless client and a plateful of bland tradition. The spicy scent of freedom wafted on a nonexistent breeze, the billboards promising girls, guns, and goobers (peanuts for you northern folk) were a cruel mockery. Then, like a greasy oasis shimmering on the sunbaked asphalt, salvation appeared – a sign proclaiming the “ultra mega uber spicy burger” in bold, garish letters. My pulse quickened, sweat beaded on my brow. Hunger won; sin was a fleeting afterthought, something to confess later. I swerved through three lanes of traffic, barely missing a semi-truck in my single-minded pursuit of culinary damnation.
Pulling into the dusty parking lot, I killed the engine and stared longingly inside the roadside oasis, my traitorous stomach growling in anticipation. The air hung thick with the scent of grilled meat, smoke curling and swirling around a neon sign boasting the “ultra mega uber spicy burger.” On a normal day, I wouldn’t have given the place a second glance. But today…today smelled like a rebellion. The diner was mostly empty, aside from a few good old boys sitting in a corner booth. In the kitchen stood a man – lean, with a surprisingly kind face. His worn jeans and faded t-shirt clashed with the pristine whiteness of his clerical collar. Even weirder, he held a spatula, like some kind of twisted roadside chef.
The dull ache in my empty belly turned into a sharp pang. It was a primal need, a desperation born out of hours of monotony and gnawing temptation. But Good Friday traditions whispered a faint protest. My grandmother’s voice murmured in my memory – a gentle reminder of meatless abstinence, of sacrifice. I squeezed my eyes shut, summoning visions of bland, flaky fish sandwiches. The smell of old fryer grease clung to the image, a wave of nausea nearly upending the burger-shaped fantasy dancing in my head.
A war raged inside me. It was faith versus hunger, tradition versus a deep, primal craving. The spicy, juicy burger taunted me, a delicious inferno promising to sear away the lingering regret over my lapsed observances. The fish sandwich mocked me with its pious humility.
But there was no contest, really. With a sigh that was half surrender and half giddy anticipation, I opened the car door. Tradition could wait. My grumbling stomach had won. The allure of the hamburger was intoxicating, a siren call that drowned out the last vestiges of doubt and my notorious inability to handle spicy foods. This wasn’t just satisfying a hunger pang; it was defiance, a rebellion fueled by hours on the road and simmering frustration. Presented with the choice between an “ultra mega uber spicy hamburger challenge” and a lackluster, soggy fish sandwich, the decision was a foregone conclusion.
“I’ll have the burger” I said with a tremble in my voice.
“Sure thing, son,” the chef said with a wry smile as he turned back to the kitchen to get to work. After some grunting, and what I could have sworn was the moo of a cow, the lanky chef reappeared at the counter to hand me my order. “Hope this doesn’t conflict with your observance!” the man said cheerfully, gesturing towards the burger bun in my shaking hand.
I stared, speechless.
A sniff, letting the warmth of the bun brush gently against my cheek. Then a bite. I found myself in culinary ecstasy, despite the tears streaming down my face and the inferno engulfing my taste buds. The pain and the heat were intense, consuming my entire face in a blaze of glory, yet the deliciousness of the burger transcended the discomfort, making every fiery bite feel like a triumphant act of defiance.
I sat there momentarily stunned, waves of pleasure radiating through my body. The lingering burn was a delicious agony, a constant reminder of my audacious lunch. But reality, like a particularly nasty heartburn, was starting to creep in. With a sigh of both satisfaction and impending dread, I hauled my suddenly less-than-spry carcass out of the booth. Squeezing into the shrinking confines of my Miata felt like an act of contortionism after such a feast, but the job, unfortunately, awaited. As the endless stretch of the mindless highway continued, a spicy warmth radiated through me, a lingering echo of the burger’s fiery embrace. With each mile, the memory of that first bite ignited within me, a spark of forbidden pleasure and a testament to the ecstasy of yielding to temptation. Waves of savory bliss washed over me, mingled with the faintest hint of impending doom. Yet, I couldn’t banish the smile from my face – the lingering heat on my tongue was a badge of honor, a testament to a moment of pure, daring indulgence. The road might stretch endlessly ahead, but I slipped into a delicious, spice-infused haze, I felt a deep contentment I hadn’t experienced in ages.
Work had called me away on this Good Friday, a day I usually held for quiet reflection. But there I was, hurtling down the highway, a lingering burn in my stomach, the radio blaring an off-key rendition of an old hymn. I should have taken it as a sign.
The hypnotic trance the ever-flashing mile markers put me into slowly gave way to another feeling; an oppressive heat began to settle over me. At first, I dismissed it as a malfunctioning air conditioner, but a creeping sense of unease started to replace the initial annoyance. The realization dawned, sudden and unwelcome, like an unexpected storm on a clear day. This…this was something far more urgent. A wave of panic surged through me. I pressed down on the accelerator, the engine roaring in futile protest. My eyes darted frantically, seeking any sign of salvation along the empty highway. Then, a flash of blue and red by the roadside brought my desperate flight to an abrupt halt. I was trapped – my body a ticking timebomb, my freedom dangling by a thread.
Hope ignited within me, a desperate flare against the encroaching darkness, as I spotted a sign for a gas station ahead. But as I drew closer, the promise of sanctuary dissolved like a desert mirage. The station stood abandoned, a skeletal mockery of salvation. Windows were boarded up, pumps draped in cobwebs, and an eerie silence hung heavy in the stifling air.
Despair clawed at my insides, a twisting, agonizing sensation mirroring the explosive pressure building within. The drive transformed into a waking nightmare, each mile a torturous eternity. My eyes darted frantically, a desperate animal seeking refuge. Any secluded spot, even a dilapidated shack, would be a mercy compared to the unthinkable alternative…
Suddenly, a flicker of movement by the roadside – an old, weather-beaten outhouse teetering at the edge of the property. A wave of frantic hope surged through me. I swerved the car off the road, the tires kicking up a cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the wretched structure. Slamming the door, I sprinted towards the outhouse, each step a jarring agony as the pressure within me threatened to reach its catastrophic limit. I pounded on the rotting wooden door, a desperate animalistic plea echoing in the desolate silence. There was no response, but the door creaked open a sliver under my frenzied assault.
It was enough. In that moment, the squalor and stench of the outhouse might as well have been a five-star oasis. I lunged inside, my stomach churning with a blend of nausea and desperate relief. I didn’t care if the world witnessed this most humiliating act. It would be a small price to pay for averting the impending disaster.
But alas, my streak of terrible luck was nowhere near ending. As I bump and struggle to undo my belt within the structure, it collapses in a spectacular cloud of dust and what is probably a lethal dose of asbestos. I instinctively throw my hands over my face, less because of the debris and more from the sudden, overwhelming fear of an imminent ambush by a flock of mesothelioma lawyers.
Heart pounding, I whirl towards the car, hands clenched over my bottom. Back on the road, a cold terror washes over me. The pressure continues to build, becoming unbearable. The turtle, it seems, is hell-bent on making its grand entrance. I can’t hold it in any longer. With frantic eyes, I continue my desperate search for a place, any place, to release this biological time-bomb I’d been carrying.
Eyes darting wildly, I scan the barren roadside for any sign of a secluded spot. My body screams in protest, the fear of public humiliation warring with the explosive urgency. It’s a battle I’m rapidly losing. With a jolt, I realize there’s no time for modesty, no time for the luxury of privacy. This baby is coming, ready or not. I swerve the car off the road and onto the dusty shoulder. Slamming the door behind me, I race towards a patch of scraggly bushes, every ounce of my being focused on this singular, unavoidable mission. And… that’s when my luck runs out.
The ground beneath my feet turns soft and treacherous, a hidden burrow collapsing as I land on it with a sickening crunch. My ankle twists violently, and in the next horrifying instant, I’m tumbling head over heels down a short but steep hill, sharp rocks and tenacious branches tearing at my clothes.
I land hard, a wave of nausea and pain washing over me. Around me, the buzzing of insects and the rustling of dry brush create a cacophony of torment. Worse yet, I seem to have disturbed a colony of something – something angry and multi-legged. With a terrified yelp, I swat at a swarm of mosquitoes that cloud my vision, a spider dangling precariously from my sleeve.
The fight or flight response kicks in with a vengeance. I stagger to my feet, ignoring the throbbing in my ankle, and launch into a frenzied escape back to the car. But my vision swims. The sun beats down mercilessly. And then, the darkness closes in.
I bolt upright, gasping. Sheets twist around me like a shroud. I’m not in my bed; I’m on the floor, my heart a frantic drummer in my chest. Sweat makes my skin clammy, chilling in the rush of air as I realize I’m back in my familiar bedroom, the first rays of dawn painting the walls. The desperate highway, the agonizing crawl… that was a nightmare. Just a nightmare.
But the relief evaporates like morning mist. A fresh wave of terror crashes over me. A burning sensation radiates through me, far worse than any spicy nightmare burger. My limbs feel like lead, but I force myself to my feet, my movements clumsy and desperate. There’s no time to question, no time to think. I stumble towards the bathroom, visions of a very public habenero-fueled apocalypse haunting my steps.
Move foot. Reach hand. Open lid. Pants off. As I turn to bend and finally find release… something explodes behind me. My knees buckle with the force of it, throwing me off balance. I lurch forward, propelled by desperation. I have mere seconds to witness a porcelain inferno erupt from the toilet bowl, a fiery, sewage-soaked geyser painting my bathroom with unholy vengeance.
Screams echo from the street, followed by the shriek of sirens in the distance. I collapse, shivering, the scent of burning habanero stinging my eyes. From the doorway, a voice cuts through the chaos:
“Hello,” the priest says, his smile all too smug as he surveys the destruction. “You know, there’s a reason we don’t eat meat on Good Friday.”
Apparently, the lessons of humility don’t end with childhood. “I…I guess some lessons are learned the hard way,” I stammer, wishing the floor would swallow me up.
“Indeed they are,” the priest replies with a cryptic half-smile that practically screams, “I know just what you did, and boy, are you in trouble.” He lingers for a moment, probably to watch me squirm, then turns and silently disappears into the hallway. Honestly, who does he think he is creeping on me in the bathroom? I stand there, knee-deep in the sewage of my morning, contemplating my sins and trying to fathom the logistics of this bizarre, priestly house call. Did he pick the lock? Why wasn’t he wearing any pants? When did priests acquire the skill of gourmet hamburger-making? Seriously, that burger was amazing.
Questions bombard me, a relentless barrage against my crumbling sanity. The absurdity chokes me, twists like a tightening noose. My racing thoughts shatter into fragments, a maelstrom of terror with no escape. The urge to scream, to laugh, to crumble – it all wars within me, a symphony of desperation. But before I yield, the world itself warps and twists. My mental vortex tears into reality. The priest, the ruined bathroom, the scent of incense – they vanish, dissolving into a whirlwind of darkness. I’m spiraling, tumbling into a suffocating void. Breath thins, fear a cold vice around my heart. This is the end. This is madness made real.
Then – the alarm’s shrill blast pierces the silence. I bolt upright, sweat-soaked and trembling in my own bed. The room is bathed in the familiar glow of dawn. I’m alone, the memory of that terrifying descent into madness already fading. My wife’s voice comes from the doorway, her tone a mix of concern and annoyance that grounds me in the here and now.
“Habenero?” she asks, a dangerous anger in her voice. “Who’s Habenero? You were moaning about her in your sleep!”
Oh boy. This day just took an even worse turn. Maybe I should have stuck with the fish sandwich after all.
Does God Exist? 