Joseph Scrimshaw

For the last year, I’ve been obsessed with seeing someone dressed as Batman eating a taco at a convention. It still hasn’t happened and I need catharsis so I wrote this story. You can catch up on Part One here. After a week of collecting your votes on the internet about Batman’s taco preference, the truth can be revealed. It was very close between soft shell and hard shell, but only one could win. Enjoy!

I’m in my element. Smoke swirls around me. The night is alive with moans of pain and wailing sirens.

This is usually in an alley or an insane asylum, though.

Now I’m behind the counter at Taco Bell.

“Soft shell or hard shell?” I ask myself. Only time for one.

Soft shell makes the most sense. It’s stealthy. A soft taco will slip down my throat with the silence and elegance befitting a creature of the night. A soft taco is a taco of the shadows.

My gloved hand reaches out, but something stops me. Something deep in my gut. The darkness inside growls and screams. It squeaks for HARD SHELL.

It’s true. I lurk in the shadows. But only so I can emerge punching, kicking, and CRUNCHING.

I grab four hard shell tacos. Two in each hand. I shove all four into my gaping maw and bring my teeth down hard. The tacos shatter. One of the jagged Dorito shells cuts into the roof of my mouth like a Cool Ranch flavored razor.

I don’t even care. Alfred can stitch me up later.

I munch ferociously. For some reason the word “sublimating” pops into my head. I can already hear Alfred mumbling as he cleans my battle and taco wounds.

“Blah, blah, eating your feelings,” Alfred will say in his super-judgey British accent.

He’ll be right. I am totes eating my feelings. Every flavor is an explosion of emotion. The lettuce is my weakness, letting my parents die right in front of me. The cheese is exciting yet processed and reminds me of my training. The sour cream is my passion. My need for justice. But the beef. The beef is my soul. Mysterious and tangy. Not entirely natural or healthy, but what are you going to do?

I am the beef. I am the night. I am Batman. And I just ate four tacos in thirty seven seconds.

I’m very happy Robin wasn’t here to Instagram this.

A chorus of nervous voices suddenly cry out, “FREEZE!”

The cops are here. They’re young and scared. I can hear their pulses pounding, the distinctive menacing click as they take the safety off on their little pistols.

They’ve been here for a few seconds. Watching me bent over something or someone, listening to the grotesque pops and crunches of the taco shells. They assume those sounds were the breaking bones of criminal scum.

I briefly consider trying to talk it out. “No, it’s cool,” I would bellow. “It’s just me, Batman. I was rage eating hard shell tacos so we’re all cool.”

I knew I was taking a risk. Letting my guard down. This is why the Batman can’t have nice things.

I need to escape quickly, but I can’t hurt the cops.

Well, I can’t hurt them TOO MUCH.

I grab two fistfuls of soft tacos and hurl them at the cops’ feet. They step on the greasy soft shells and slip, their little pistols firing into the ceiling as if to scream, “I LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT!”

A grizzled vet deftly side-steps the soft tacopaclypse. He’s dealt with soft shells before. He takes his time to get a bead on me as I dash toward the drive-thru window.

His finger dances on the trigger. I roll and grab a shard of broken hard shell from the floor. I spring up. The taco shard flies from my hand. It’s an extension of me now. It’s a soldier.

The deadly Dorito chunk lodges in the cop’s throat. Not in an artery or anything. I’m not an asshole. I’m Batman. The taco shell won’t kill him, but the shame might.

He says something witty like, “Hurrgggurburrrgllll!” and collapses. Pretty over-dramatic, grizzled vet.

I pick up a packet of hot sauce. The cops assume it’s a weapon. Anything can be a weapon if you’re scary enough.

I lob it at their feet like it’s a grenade. They scream. I smile.

I shatter the drive-thru window with one kick. I force myself through the tiny window. I don’t look cool doing that, but no one’s looking now. The cops are too busy unloading a merciless hail of bullets into a packet of hot sauce.

I leap into the safety of the batmobile. The engine roars and I speed away. I look in the mirror and watch the war-torn Taco Bell disappear into the darkness.

I feel something strange. My stomach gurgles with…satisfaction. A deep, dark need has been met.

But something inside me still growls. I will always be hungry. I will always be angry.

I will always be hangry for justice.

I am darkness. I am the night. I am full of processed beef.

I’m Batman and I like tacos. Shut up.

Thanks for reading and voting! For more Batman fun, check out this video. Also, if you enjoyed the story, you can make more ridiculous shit like this possible by supporting me on Patreon! Very close to unlocking the Holiday Comedy album which will include a live performance of Batman on Jingle Bells. Thanks!