ramblings.

There’s a man with a truck. He sells corn. This isn’t your ordinary corn, no. This is grade-A black market corn. This corn was grown in questionable locations, and is quite possibly genetically engineered for ‘higher quality’. This blatantly illegal, potentially unhealthy corn is also addictive. The man selling this corn is aware of all these things. He’s using his addictive, super-tasty corn to tighten the Mob’s strangle-hold on our neighborhood. And he must be stopped. I fell into his clutches, and managed to get out. Others may not be so lucky.

I discovered this fact on a clear July day. The Corn Man had set up shop, and was easily outselling the supermarket almost directly behind it. This seemed rather suspicious to me, so I went to investigate. My original hypothesis was that the Corn Man had lowered his prices far below those of the supermarket. The first of my mistakes. The Corn Man’s prices were easily twice that of the local Sobey’s.

Then…why? I decided to continue this investigation further. Gathering the kind of courage only instilled by slight drunkeness, I asked the Corn Man just why, oh why his prices were so high.

“Dees eez some good corn here, gerl! You don’ get dees kinna corn in da shops!”

The Corn Man spoke with a heavy accent, and it was now that I got a good look into his eyes. They were the eyes of Satan. If Satan were a dingy-looking Mexican who sold addictive, black-market corn. I looked into these eyes, and the words that would eternally seal my fate as a corn junkie escaped my lips.

“Let me try some.”

My third mistake. As the Corn Man put his foul, foul wares in a plastic bag, I began to panic. This was illegal, addictive corn! What was I doing? I attempted to let him know that I changed my mind, that I no longer wanted the corn, but-

“Jefe! C’mere!” Jefe came. And I almost cried with fear. Jefe was a 7-foot-tall Mexican behemoth.

“Please don’t eat me.” I whispered. He held his hand out, and I looked at him, tears in my eyes and sweat beginning to gather on my forehead. What did he want? Why was he looking at me? Then it hit me.

Jefe wanted the money. Jefe was the Corn Guy’s subordinate. Of course! These people always work in pairs! I handed over the cash, took the bag, and got the hell out of there before I could be shot. Upon arriving home, I boiled and ate one of the ears.

Heaven. Pure yellow Heaven. Oh Corn Guy, why did I ever doubt you?

That was the beginning of my descent into madness. I became a hardcore corn junkie. I was eating any corn I could get. But not the canned shit. Eating canned corn is like smoking catnip. No one gets that desperate. One dreary October I even resorted to eating the dried-out decorative corn on my grandma’s wall. That’s when I realized it:

I had hit rock bottom. And I needed help.

So I severed my ties with the Corn Man, vowing to never buy his tainted wares again.

Corn withdrawal was a bitch. I cried, I shook. I hit a new low when I stole a tin of corn from the food bank. Despite these lows, I managed to kick the habit through sheer perseverance. And here I stand before you, free of that horrible, horrible monkey.

Use my tale as a warning: Beware of old men selling corn out of trucks. Anyone is a target. Even you.