The Beav, as my sister calls the old burb, is infested with Taco Trucks. They roam the countryside and set up temporary dens in parking lots. I’ve become accustomed to them, learned to ignore the vague feeling of menace they give me - why would you need a getaway car for selling FOOD? - but today, I was freshly disturbed. As I eased my car to a stop at TV Highway and 170th, I saw beside me a taco truck blazoned with the ominous name, Master Taco. Beside the brightly colored words, a red pepper in a sombrero stared, implacable, unreadable. “MASTER TACO,” read his hatband.

Who is Master Taco? From whence springs his power over his peppery minions? What are his goals? We can only guess.

Master Taco

In the walk-in freezer of a fast food joint, a lone enchilada shivers. The door clanks open. He isn’t alone. He squints as the to-go bag is pulled off his head and his eyes adjust to the light. He almost wishes he still couldn’t see. The Pepper Brothers. Master Taco’s left- and right-shell foods.

“Ummm, hi guys!” Bennie Enchilada stammers, green chili sauce streaming from his brow. “What’s up?” he squeaks.

“We hear you been looking for Master Taco,” one Pepper says.

“Healthy food don’ look for Master Taco,” the other adds. “But then again, you don’ look too healthy.”

“Enchiladas never do,” snorts his brother, then flicks away his toothpick and grabs Bennie by the tortilla in one quick motion. “Why you lookin’ for Master Taco, Bennie? Why you lookin’ for death?” he bellows.

“I just wanted to know!”

“WANTED TO KNOW WHAT?”

“Whether he exists!” Bennie squeals.

The Pepper pulls back, and exchanges blank stares with his companion. Ice crystals crackle in Bennie’s chili sauce. The chill quiet is broken by the Peppers, as one, opening their mouths, slits so thin they could have been cut with a kitchen knife, and laughing, long and low.

“You don’ believe in Master Taco, Bennie?” one says when they’ve recovered. “We’ll show you Master Taco.” The to-go bag descends, and Bennie sees no more. The world is spinning, then rumbling, rushing, the sound of engines and roadruts drifting through to the terrified foodstuff.

There is music where they take Bennie. Mariachi music, and the sound of people murmuring. Bennie smells other foodstuffs, many of them. When the bag comes off, he is in a backroom. Slender flautas preen themselves in front of mirrors before flouncing off for the floor show. He stammers a greeting to one, but she stares and brushes some flour off her taut, crispy shell pointedly.

“Heh,” one of the Peppers laughs, “Master Taco, he likes his women spicy.”

Bennie Enchilada is bundled along a long hallway, grim burritos and the occasional debauched tamale giving him curious, amused glances as the Peppers push him on. “It’s all right, guys!” Bennie yelps, “I believe you! I believe in Master Taco! You don’t gotta prove nothing!”

“Too late, boy,” comes the rasp from the chill vegetable heart. A swinging door looms ahead. The Peppers throw Bennie inside.

Again, Bennie squints. The world is dark, musty. Low lights on the walls reveal a sumptuous room hung with cheesy faux-Mexican rugs and velvet sombreros. At the end of the room, on a great platter, is Master Taco.

It could be no other. He is immense. A novelty taco. His long-stale corn shell, a foot tall, bulges with rotting meat and long-wilted lettuce. A dollop of pink sour cream serves him as a forelock.

“You must be Bennie Enchilada,” he wheezes. “Come closer.” Bennie does, shrinking back from the decayed smell of the ancient feast. “So, you didn’t believe in me?” Master Taco laughs. “Why’s that?”

“Umm, Master Taco, sir, I…” Bennie drips uncomfortably onto the carpet beside the platter. “I didn’t think any food could live so long as they said you had!”

Master Taco laughs. “Good reason, Bennie. I got a secret. You want to hear it?”

Bennie nods silently.

“I am still alive,” Master Taco says in a whisper, and Bennie leans closer. ”...because of preservatives.”

Bennie frowns. “But, Master Taco, sir. We ALL have preservatives.”

“That’s right, son.” wheezes the old boss. “But I get extra preservatives…”

“How?”

“FROM EATING CHUMPS LIKE YOU!” Master Taco roars, and Bennie Enchilada’s last sight is the stale, stale shell descending to crush him in its crunchy jaws.