The Holder of Condiments

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. Approach the front desk and ask to visit the one who calls himself "The Holder of Condiments." Should the worker hand you a nondescript packet, flee the institution immediately, for he knows you are here, and he needs to slake his cravings. Should the worker hand you a bun, proceed to the first door on your right. Walk 30 paces down the darkened hallway to a red, flickering fluorescent sign. It will be hard to make out the words, but you must enter; there is no turning back now.

Once inside, you will smell a combination of rotting flesh and barbeque. Approach the counter that will become visible as your eyes become accustomed to the low light. You will see a severed head slowly slowly rotating on the shawarma, and you will see a headless person cooking the head. As the cook slices flesh from what you somehow know to be his own roasting head, the head will ask you through grimacing mouth, "Ttzatziki sauce?"

Should you respond no (as many before you have), you will immediately be decapitated and forever replace the falafel ghoul who roasts his head. Respond yes, and you will suddenly be knocked unconscious. When you awake, you will be in the kitchen of whatever place you call home. Cradled in your prayerful hands, will be the bun, filled with a grotesque, rotting, vile, mixture of roasted cheek flesh; charred ear and nose cartilage; singed, still burning, curled hair; oozing eyeballs; a lolling tongue; and still quivering lips--all drizzled with the most delicious tzatziki sauce you've ever tasted.

The tzatziki sauce is object 297 of 538. This is their favorite food, use it against them.

Categories: | Parodies |

Last modified on 2008-07-13 20:19:36Average Rating: 4 / 5 (1 votes)Viewed 6400 times

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