STINK BOMB AT TACO BELL
By Alex Rynant/ Rancho Bernardo
Bob and I were in a hurry to pick up his wife at the airport but we needed to eat before we got there. We went to Taco Bell for some tacos and burritos that we could power down while driving. We got our order and sped away for the airport. Halfway through eating, we divided up the remaining tacos and realized that we were four tacos short. It was too late to turn back, the plane was scheduled to land in a few minutes and we were half an hour away. Bob ran off to find his wife, and I went to look for a pay phone. I called the restaurant and explained that our order was shorted. The manager was less than friendly, and we argued for a little bit. It was my word against his and I finally gave up. It was only a couple of dollars, but it was the principle that counted. Plus we were still hungry.
(Note: Some of the names in these stories have been changed.)
I caught up with Bob and his wife, exchanged pleasantries, and then told Bob the bad news. Surprisingly, he was just as ticked off as I was. Bob and I-had been shorted by fast food drive-through windows once too often. He cussed the whole way home, which made for a very long car ride. Later that night Bob called me with a plan for getting even.
Bob was a business major in college. Even though he never graduated, he did manage to pick up a few things, mostly from his fraternity brothers. One thing he learned to do was how to make a stink bomb. I’m sure it wasn’t in the university’s curriculum, it was just one of the important things you needed to learn in life.
It was just before noon on a Saturday when we decided to pay Taco Bell a visit. We pulled into the parking lot, and Bob grabbed a bottle of liquid out of the back of his truck. Once inside the restaurant, we each ordered a large soft-drink.
Instead of filling the cups from the self-serve soda machine, we took them to the back of the restaurant. Bob then filled each cup from the bottle he had brought with him.
He then pulled two envelopes from his pocket, one for each of us, and told me dump the contents of it into the cup after I had placed it on the table. Bob went to the other side of the restaurant to do the same thing.
Words cannot describe the rancid odor that engulfed the restaurant.
These were stink bombs that were disguised as ordinary soft-drink cups. They emitted an invisible stench that pierced your nose like being hit with a sledgehammer. Try to imagine the horrific odor produced by a pool of chunky vomit baking in the summer heat, only a hundred times worse.
We sat in Bob’s truck and watched as people streamed out of the restaurant. The workers propped the doors open and cleaned up the mess. It was at least 25 to 30 minutes before people went into the restaurant.
Meanwhile, Bob and I had a good laugh.
It was worth the tacos that we had been shorted.
NOSE TO NOSE WITH A KENWORTH
By Joe Kicvit / Rolando
Most over-the-road truck drivers are invariably known to their peers by their CB radio call signs or “handles.” “Bad News” was no exception, and if ever I saw someone who fit their nickname, this guy was the one.
We both worked for a now-defunct trucking company that was based in San Diego. This company was a fairly berserk place to work, and Bad News fit right in when he hired on as a driver.
He was definitely a strange bird. He talked in CB lingo when he was talking to people in person and introduced himself by his handle as if he were Clint Eastwood introducing himself to a fan. I have never figured out whether we were friends or enemies.
After a few weeks at work, it became apparent to his fellow drivers that Bad News was going to be a real pain in the ass to work with. In addition to a lot of annoying habits, Bad News was an inveterate practical joker. Everyone at the company was sooner or later made a victim of his attempts at humor, myself included. The only way he kept his job was the fact that he was a fairly good driver, and management was too dumb to figure out who the joker was that put the dispatcher on an X-rated mailing list, signed the secretary up with a dating service (she was married), or who kept mailing potatoes to the owner. (No note or anything, just potatoes.)
The first time Bad News got me was at a frozen-storage place near the convention center. Bad News and I were there loading at the same time. I finished first, secured my trailer doors, and got in my cab to check my paperwork. Bad News finished, hopped in his truck, waved, and took off. Satisfied my paperwork was right, I fired up and headed onto the freeway. About a mile later, cars started driving by me and pointing and honking. I checked my mirrors and, to my great horror, saw a door was open and was swinging in the wind. I pulled off to the shoulder and ran to the rear. Bad News apparently had unlatched my door, and I was now short four cases of frozen fish that were undoubtedly all over the freeway. Ha-ha. Naturally, Bad News denied it.
The next time, several of us were getting ready to take off out of our yard for a trip to Washington state with several van loads of military freight. I checked my truck, got in, and got ready to go. Bad News and two others took off, and I started up and put it in gear. Little did I know that Bad News had pulled my fifth-wheel release lever. As soon as I moved, the trailer slid off the tractor and dropped on its nose. Naturally, the owner, the mechanic, and the dispatcher were watching. The owner walked over and asked me what I did for an encore. I was so shocked, I just sat there with a weak smile.