Popcorn guy

There’s an editor in my office who eats popcorn all day long. It’s really very annoying. Everyday at 3, I know that Popcorn Guy will either be: 1. Burning his popcorn in the microwave, making the entire floor smell like incinerated roadkill or 2. Getting popcorn grease all over his keyboard as his shoves the delicious fake buttery goodness into his mouth. He’s a bit of an odd duck. During long, boring meetings, I tend to wonder how Popcorn Guy came to be.

Part 1: Popcorn Guy – A History

He stood in aisle 9, staring intently at a spot on the top shelf somewhere between the Wheat Thins and the Fig Newtons. Orville Redenbacher or Paul Newman’s organic special? White cheddar or kettle corn? The choices were too much. As if he was listening to a screeching staccato in surround sound, his eyes darted around the Safeway in a frantic attempt to focus. Suddenly, he blacked out with a thud.

When Harry Hamilton awoke, he was lying on a 70s print couch that was obviously inspired by the outside of a Mexican bus. Blinking away his headache, he could make out a small TV with bad reception that was playing One Tree Hill reruns on TBS. It was obviously daytime, and his rescuer obviously had terrible taste in WB dramas.

From behind the sofa, the smell of Velveeta cheese made Harry’s stomach contract, ready to expel it’s contents at any moment. A female voice appeared. ‘Hola Senior Hamilton! You have awoken!’

‘Who the hell are you, Mamacita? Where am I? Why did you bring me here? And why are you watching Chad Michael Murray?’ Gruff by nature, lost, and strangely hungry for popcorn, Harry was in no mood to be polite to strangers. When he wanted popcorn, he wanted popcorn.

‘Calm DOWN, Senor Hamilton. You’re safe at Casa Guerrero. You don’t know what’s going on?’

‘Does it look like I have a clue?! Who are you?!’ Harry’s voice rose 3 octaves and started to squeak in a fit of hysteria.

‘If you don’t calm down right now I’m going to pour this bowl of recently boiled Velveeta down your pants. You wouldn’t want that would you?’

Harry looked down at his elevated feet and realized that they were attached to the kitchen oven handle around the corner by a long metal chain.

‘Fine, bitch. Tell me.’

Senorita Guerrero sneered and brought the bowl of Velveeta up to Harry’s foot. She poured the boiling hot cheese over his big toe as he shrieked like a kindergartner who had just gotten pelted in the face by a dodge ball.

‘It has to do with your father…’

To be continued.


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