One month ago, I introduced you to the first chapter of Taco Hut, a serial flash fiction story written collaboratively by ChatGPT and Yours Truly. A couple of weeks later, you got to read Chapter 2. But if you haven’t read either chapter yet, then I encourage you to click the two links below to brush up on the story line. Each chapter is under 1,000 words, so they are easily digestible. If you can, see if you can tell which parts I wrote and which parts ChatGPT wrote.
Today, I introduce you to Taco Hut: Chapter 3. Keep reading. Things get really wild.
Taco Hut: Chapter 3
The flautist, known around Vanilla Spectacle as Mister Tickles (a misnomer born of one ill-timed massage during choir rehearsal), had long borne a grudge against brass instruments. “Too bold,” he’d say, “too brash, and, frankly, too phallic.” His flute, polished nightly and stored in a velvet-lined case embroidered with the words “Speak Softly and Carry a High C”, was the only woodwind he trusted.
At precisely 4:12 p.m. that same Wednesday—the exact temporal opposite of the magical 4:12 a.m. incident—he was seen cartwheeling through the hedge maze behind the Vanilla Spectacle Mall. Witnesses claim he was muttering something about “cleansing the alley” and “redeeming the mouthpiece.” No one stopped him, of course. It was Mister Tickles. You didn’t stop Mister Tickles; you watched from behind reinforced windows.
Sister Doris, meanwhile, stormed toward the mall with a hymnal under one arm and a vengeance the size of the Book of Revelation under the other.
When she arrived, after wading through the fatty acids of the mall floor, she bellowed feverishly, “Oh, Mister Tickles!”
Mister Tickles, for all he was worth, couldn’t resist. “Oh, Sister Doris,” he crooned in returned, listening as the echoes of his voice filled the walls of the abandoned mall.
And that’s when Kenny rushed in singing Hymn No. 419 from the outdated Third Wave Revival Hymnbook, 2nd Edition. Mister Tickles found himself spontaneously impressed that a cockroach could carry a tune so well, and in a bucket filled with holy water no less, while Sister Doris hid her face in hopes that her annoyance wouldn’t show.
Just then, the escalator—long dormant yet still glistening with the residual sheen of melted pretzels—lurched to life. Out stepped the Bermuda shorts. Not a person wearing Bermuda shorts, mind you. The Bermuda shorts themselves, having gained sentience during a clearance sale in 2008, now swaggered toward the trio with undeniable flair and a suspiciously French accent.
“Oh, là là,” the shorts said, adjusting their waistband provocatively. “Is zis ze spiritual karaoke I 'eard so much about?”
Kenny hiccupped mid-verse, sending a soprano note ricocheting off the Sunglass Shanty, while Mister Tickles bowed solemnly, antennae lowered in reverence.
Sister Doris, ever the pragmatist, reached into her handbag and pulled out a kazoo sanctified by Bishop Rick during Lent. “We don’t do karaoke,” she snapped, “we do revival theatrics.”
Somewhere in the distance, a Cinnabon wept.
Pastor Bruce pranced in sideways with an éclair between his lips and quietly asked for prayer. As Sister Doris began to play her kazoo, the Bermuda shorts danced the rhumba between the shelves of an abandoned gift shop.
“Oh,” Sister Doris cooed, taking a break from the kazoo. “Pastor Bruce, you have some moooves.”
Of course, Kenny, not a big fan of Pastor Bruce, ran for the nearest exit. The mall lights flickered like strobe lights at a 70s discotheque and, before anyone could stop him, Mister Tickles sprinted up the escalator toward the food court, which hadn’t been used since the Dallas Cowboys last won a Super Bowl. As he topped the second floor of the mall, he bumped into the ever-smiling Mayor Crumbwell, who’d stopped by only to sign autographs in case anyone was interested.
Mayor Crumbwell, holding a stack of 8x10 glossies featuring himself in a wetsuit and mayoral sash, barely blinked. “Mister Tickles, my lad,” he said, stuffing a photo into the opossum’s tiny vest pocket, “never underestimate the nostalgic pull of a dead pretzel stand.”
Back downstairs, Sister Doris dropped her kazoo mid-solo and shrieked, “We’re missing the spectacle!” She tore off in the direction of the food court, kazoo now clenched between her teeth like a pirate’s dagger.
Pastor Bruce took a knee, éclair still unbitten, praying softly: “Lord, if it be thy will, guide us through this disco-lit tribulation.”
Meanwhile, Kenny, in full sprint, collided with a mannequin dressed as Captain Crunch. Disoriented but inspired, he proclaimed, “I am the cereal now!” and began recruiting an army from the Bath & Body Works clearance bin.
The Bermuda shorts? They’d gone rogue, now breakdancing to a Muzak remix of “Staying Alive.”
There’s only one thing left for you to do. Hit the Subscribe button and reblog this story, written with ten flavors of love.
First published at Substack. Image by ChatGPT.
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