A Frat Fairy Tale About The Mystery Of The Burrito Bandit

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Nice Move

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It was a typical Saturday night at State and, as usual, Tubbs was hungry. He’d ditched the advice from his doctor that he could stand to cut back on eating and drinking so much. After all, he’d failed at heeding this advice before, and if it happened once, it could happen again. No point in setting yourself up for failure. To Tubbs, happiness was a cold beer and some leftover burrito. The former had already been consumed in spades, and it was time for the latter.

He approached the house fridge, eyes wide at the idea of shredded chicken and soupy black beans. Through his hazy eyes, there was nothing more delicious than reheated slop wrapped in a flour tortilla. As he flung open the door his eyes widened in shock. The box, one he had clearly labeled “Tubbs!,” was gone. He searched between the half empty bottles of mustard and ranch dressing, but still there was nothing. To his barley-washed mind, someone had just committed a true atrocity. He stormed upstairs, dead set on finding the culprit.

House Manager Hicks had just finished wiping off his member when a few overzealous knocks startled him. He hastily tossed some tissues in his trash can and pulled up his drawers, thankful that this wakeup call hadn’t come sooner. He made his way to the door and opened it to see a large, angry, clearly intoxicated form in front of him. Tubbs burst in before Hicks could even ask why he was there.

“We got a crook, man. Some asshole is stealing stuff outta the fridge and I won’t stand for it!”

Still riding a wave of post-ejaculatory bliss, it took Hicks a few moments to string together exactly what the slurring load in front of him was raving about. After some soothing words and the offer of a beer, Tubbs had calmed down enough to be mildly coherent.

“So you’re sure you didn’t eat it already, right? Remember the big to do with those McNuggets? That shit went on for three days before you found the box in your own trash you psycho.”

“Nah, this isn’t that. Why I came right away. I knew you’d say that, you spindly fuck. I markered it and everything. What’s a house without trust?”

Hicks took a moment to digest it, nodding sympathetically about the big man’s toppled dream of a Tex-Mex icing on his blackout cake. Clearly, there was nothing to be done about the situation, but he had to give Tubbs some measure of condolence.

“Tell you what, big guy. I’ll be sure to bring this up to the board and start spreading word that this kind of thing won’t stand. You’re absolutely right, trust is everything in a brotherhood. You and I know that better than anyone, right?”

Tubbs bobbed his head like a limp noodle. He gave Hicks a sloppy hug, and thanked him profusely. Even though it cost him a late night snack, at least it wasn’t going to happen again. As he stumbled away, his drunken mind knew it had more to say.

“I’m sorry about Sarah, man.”

“That’s in the past, buddy. You couldn’t have known. Sleep it off, we’ll fix this tomorrow” Hicks replied with a smile.

As the door closed, Hicks’ eyes narrowed. He returned to his desk drawer, producing a small box reading only “Tubbs!” He knew, as he’d known for weeks, that Tubbs wouldn’t remember the conversation tomorrow. His eyes briefly glimpsed the trash can, on top of which were a few tissues featuring spots of chicken and beans. He slinked downstairs and headed for the fridge to replace the burrito — with a new helping of sour cream.

When he returned upstairs, ready to bid his crime good night, the same thought that had occupied him for a month crossed his mind.

“Nobody fucks my little sister. Nobody.”

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Karl Karlson is TFM's self-proclaimed cartoon expert and your best buddy. He resides in the mountains of NC where he wrestles black bears and attempts to grow a beard. Karl gave up liquor following an unfortunate incident involving tequila and a vacuum cleaner, but he isn't above a nice stout on the porch.

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