Attack of the Nachos

When Brother and I were little little little we would share the double bed in the basement at the cottage.

The basement was just one room at the bottom of the stairs. It included the second fridge, 'pop-fridge', the access door for under the cottage (see: scary as hell), and a door to the back/bottom porch thing outside.

When my parents would decide it was bedtime for us, they would usher Brother and I down to the basement to go to sleep. I would check the locks on both the doors (creepy creepy creepy doors) before crawling under the 'McDonald's characters comforter' that my grandmother had acquired God-knows-how-long-ago from God-knows-where.

We would then explode into fits of laughter over the stupidest things our small minds could create.

One night Ronald McDonald and Grimace sparked a conversation about food that isn't really food, and Brother and I ended up talking about the toxicity of Lunchables.



Image from here

I don't remember the exact thought process that led up to the Nachos being able to fly, but they could, and they were vicious. They would aim for your face and eyes, smashing their fake-corn-chip-y goodness off your precious skin, drawing blood and bruising.


It was a brutal event.


One that stayed with Brother and I long after the black mould grew on the ceiling in the basement and we moved upstairs to the shaky bunk bed.


Long after we stopped going to the cottage every other weekend.


I was at the cottage last year and I walked down into the basement.

Our old bed is covered in garbage: pieces of the ceiling, black mould, mouse nesting; the pop-fridge barely runs anymore; and the access door is locked by a giant nail.

I stood in the wreckage wondering how we were ever allowed to sleep down here, when I heard them.

tick        ticktick          tick            tick          tickticktick                  tick

I looked at the windows, and sure enough: a pack of Nachos, flying up against the window, looking for the way in.



They remembered me.