I sat next to the “Which Way is Up?” poster that hangs on the KenTacoHut wall. I just don’t know, I thought, I would think up is up, but… I looked closely at the hot air balloons, they appeared to be right side up. But up could be back, going into the picture, but what’s up for one guy, could be down for another, they are in hot air balloons after all.

I took another bite from my burrito supreme, which was making a huge mess all over my tray, and pondered the picture a bit more.

“So, if we were turned inside out,” said a kid to his mom, sitting at the table next to me, “would our skeletons be on the inside, or the outside?”

That kid has some weird thoughts I thought. But didn’t that kid ever see Inside-Out Boy? His skeleton was on the outside, but his skull somehow stayed on the inside.

The boy’s dad sat down, carrying a tray full of Taco Bell. The kid reached across the table, grabbing the packets of mild sauce from his tray. He held it high in the air, “Mildtacosaucechu! I collected you! I will be a Condí-Master!”

“Sit down Jim! Eat your chicken,” said his mother.

“Give me that back, son,” said Jim’s father.

“Just go get some more honey, he likes it,” said Mom.

The dad sighed, stood, and walked over to the Taco Bell.

“Mus-tard and Ke-tchup! I have collected you! I will be a Condí-Master!” a kid somewhere in the restaurant screamed.

A kid fell from the sky, landing next to a table of old women. They looked down at him, with looks in their eyes that the youth is retarded, and the human race is doomed. A blue sweater wearing old lady picked a honey mustard up off the floor.

“Kevin! Are you ok?” a lady above me screamed.

I looked up to see a lady, a man, and a 15-year-old boy, all looking over the balcony at the child that fell from the sky.

Kevin slowly moved his legs, then strained to pull his head off the floor. “HoneyMus-tard?” he groaned, then looked the other way. “That one is quick,” he said, and collapsed.

I jumped up onto my chair, looking down at everyone eating their meals, then the evil kids, “Stop your condiment hoarding, vile children!” I jumped off the chair, and walked over to beside Jim’s table. “Condiments are for all to enjoy!” I yelled, taking the taco sauces back, “they are not for your personal use!”

“I can’t believe it.”

I looked over in the direction of the voice. It was Casey, putting a handful of BBQ sauce into one of the red and yellow cubes holstered to his sides. Plastic Condíment key chains dangled from his clothing. Next to Casey stood a forty-five year old man, wearing a Condíment shirt, with a strange looking ketchup packet in the middle with action lines radiating outward from it.

“Condiment Man,” Casey muttered, his voice filled with seriousness, “how could you. How could you be Team Red Evil?”

Forty-five year old man spoke up, “Condí-Trainers! This is the day that the professor told us about from the first show!”

The children lined up behind Casey and the forty-five year old man.

“Condí-Trainers, pull your Condí-Cubes out!” yelled Casey, and the kids pulled out red and yellow cubes that looked like the ones at Casey’s side.

Jim “The Bones Kid” screamed, “I choose you! Mildsaucechu!”

The kid from off in the distance yelled, “Mayotwo!”

Kevin, who falleth from the sky, “I choose you! Bar-B-Chu!”

Forty-five year old man, “I choose you, Greypoo-pon!”

Casey, “RoastedredpepperKe-tchup!”

Roasted red pepper ketchup, a fine condiment I had only heard about, now being hoarded. “Put your condiments down, condiment hoarders!”

“Kids, attack!” Casey screamed.

The children tore a hole in the packets, and dropped them on the ground. “Wake up! Condíment!”

The kids leaped into the air, seemingly in slow motion, “Nooooo!” oozed its way from my mouth in a low moan. Feet came down on the packets, shooting condiment goodness all over me. They dropped more, and again I was pelted.

I jumped at Kevin, grabbed him by the waist, and heaved him back into the sky from which he fell. He didn’t come back down, but a man started yelling, and a child started to cry.

A packets worth of fire sauce hit just above my eye, its juice slowly trickled down my face. I found the little monster wasting the taco sauce, laughing. “This isn’t funny little boy,” I said as I picked him up, and heaved him back into the distance.

Pain entered my head, and blackness soon followed as I felt myself crumple to the floor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I woke up, head spinning, a dented chair a few feet away. I pried myself from the ground, and started to head for the Condiment Mobile, when I noticed the place was condimentless. I reached into my belt, and found I had none to give. Those punk kids and their hoarding. “They shall pay for their disrespect of condiments. Do not worry citizens, I will return with condiments for your meals.”

A few customers looked up at me, then back at their trays. They tried hard to conceal their sadness, but I could see right through those fake happy faces. I took off running for Price Chopper, calling Alfredo on the Condiment Phone. When I entered I headed straight for the condiment isle, telling Alfredo we had an emergency. Rounding the bend, I stepped into the condiment isle. I glanced at the shelves, and the phone fell out of my hand, making a loud clatter on the ground. My jaw dropped and eyes went wide. Price Chopper was out of condiments.

“Alfredo!” I screamed, and picked the phone up off the ground. “Alfredo, Price Chopper is all out, so is KenTacoHut. Guwaa… Now they’ve hit Backyard Burger. Guard our supply from these villainous children!”

Alfredo said he would give his life before he let them in.

Though I don’t like to do it, I had to leave the KenTacoHut customers condimentless for the time being. I headed over to Backyard, and asked where the culprit went.

“Who?” asked the Backyard employee.

“The guy that took all your condiments.”

“Oh, he went that way, toward the Chevy’s.”

I took off for the Mexican restaurant. When I got there, I found they still were condiment plentiful.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen, uhh… Casey,” said the host.

“What about a forty-five year old man? You must have seen him,” I said.

“I’ve seen many forty-five-year-old men tonight. Listen, I don’t think I can help you. I can get you a table for you and your friends, but you’re holding up my line.”

“They are not my friends! They’re evil! I’m Condiment Man, do I look evil to you?”

“Sure, whatever. Do you want a table or not?”

I stepped away from the man, letting the line pass in front of me.

“If you’re hiding them in there,” I said, stepping up to the host again, “I’m not gonna be happy with you,” I looked at his nametag, “Ted.”

“Hey red guy,” said the lady next in line, “I’ll keep an eye out for this guy, so you can go away now.”

“Well, thank you citizen. He’s dangerous, so watch out.”

I exited the building to the crowds applause. I scanned the area, looking for a place they might strike. I decided on the Quick Trip, and began walking in that direction.

“I choose you! FancyKe-tchup!”

I spun, catching a packet’s worth of Fancy Ketchup in my eye.

Scraping the condiment off, I licked it from my fingers, and found my forty-five-year-old opponent kneeling atop the Chevy’s roof.

He stood, walking along the edge, and looked down at me with hatred smeared across his face. “Team Red Evil!” he yelled, “How dare you try and steal Condíments we have rightfully collected! You shall pay!” The forty-five-year-old man heaved himself into the air at me. He spun gracefully through the air, falling quickly towards the ground.

His hands disappeared for a second, and when they returned I had a bottle of a red condiment flying at my head. I dodged quickly to the side, snatching the bottle out of the sky, while getting kicked in the head at the same time. I collapsed to the ground, the Gates sauce falling out of my hand, and shattering on the concrete.

“Totally awesome distraction there GatesBar-B-Chu. Let’s finish him off.”

I tried to pry myself off the ground, but when I would try the earth spun so quickly I couldn’t stay on my feet. Blood trickled from my nose, and water filled my eyes.

“Come Condí-Trainers! Team Red Evil is weak! Now is the time to finish it off!”

A rustling came from my side.

I knelt, forty-five year old man stood to my left, Jim, who escaped from the earlier fight, stood to my right, clenching armfuls of condiment packets. Jim dropped the packets to the ground. “I choose you! Condíment Assortment Army!” He jumped into the air, and maneuvered himself into a belly flop position over the condiment packets. “Attack!” he screamed as he fell.

I ran at him at full speed, and gave him a good push. He veered away from the condiments, and slid a bit on the concrete.

Bits of skin hung from his knee, and blood started to move toward the surface of the scrape. Jim’s bottom lip started to quiver, and his eyes filled with liquid. He tossed his condiment filled cubes at the ground, and ran off toward KenTacoHut, calling for his mommy.

“Baby!” cried forty-five-year-old man at his wounded teammate. He looked back toward me, “I still have you outnumbered.” He pulled a French’s mustard squeeze bottle, green Heinz ketchup, and a relish packet from one cube, and a KFC honey mustard packet, and a Jack Stack Original Barbeque Sauce bottle from the other cube.

Customers of all shapes and sizes had been gathering around, watching from a distance. Now the Fresh Mex patrons had us surrounded.

I assumed a fighting stance, and sprung at him. As I flew through the air, time felt like it slowed down.

“Attack! JackstackorigionalBar-B-Chu!” drooled from forty-five-year-old man’s lips. The bottle of sauce started to move in front of me.

I focused on my targets, his condiment holders. My arms came up, and I was now flying gracefully at him. The next moment, I brought my arms down on the Condí-Cubes, and my head flew through the glass bottle of barbeque sauce.

Time returned to normal, and I found myself lying on top of the forty-five year old man, glass bits scattered about, sauce covering my head, and splattered around the area. The Cubes landed next to the customers, a few packets spilling out.

I crawled up him, pinning him to the ground, “Surrender! You hoarder and waster of condiments!”

Forty-five-year-old man started to squirm, “Never! I will never give in to you Team Red Evil! The professor said to never let you triumph.”

“You’re a middle aged man! You’re not supposed to believe a children’s cartoon show.” I shook him, trying to knock some sense into him. The corner of a magazine shook its way out from under his shirt. I pulled it out.

It was called Condíment World, and on the cover were some kids looking up at Team Red Evil, who looked an awful lot like me, looming in the background while holding a handful of condiments.

I opened the magazine to a worn page, crumpled and tattered. How to Become a Condí-Master was bolded at the top and was followed by an article, which read:

To become a Condí-Master, one must collect all the kinds of Condíments from the different worlds, while battling Team Red Evil, who is trying to become a Condí-Master by stealing Condíments from those who are trying to become Condí-Masters.

Have you collected all the Condíments? Call 555-4136 to become an official Condí-Master!

On the opposite page was an ad for the Condíment cartoon show. In the ad, were bunches of Condíment packets, only called stupid things, like Arbysaucechu, Bar-B-Chu, and Relisheightynine, and each had a cute face drawn on. Retsaw Publishing Inc. got the credit for publishing this Condíment crap.

I looked down at the forty-five-year-old man, “You’re evil doing days are over.” Pulling the CM Utility Phone from my belt, I called Alfredo for an evildoer pickup. “Retsaw Publishing Inc., you’re next.”