By Austen Brauker
Turd felt like he had been driving forever, which is a long way on an empty stomach. Days flew by for every passing second. He was hungrier than he had ever been, but there were no stores anywhere, not even any houses. He started to wonder how many days it was since he began this never-ending quest for a destination he couldn’t recall.
The road was straight and flat, leading endlessly past the horizon. It seemed like some kind of celestial oddity had clad his world in night forever. Turd was tired. He noticed the speed limit had gone up to 65 and pressed the gas. The grassland whizzed by as he looked over through the open passenger window. It had been closed before.
The night wind woke him up, somewhat, and he suddenly noticed what was riding in the seat next to him. It was a Little Debbie’s Swiss Cake Roll, about a foot tall. It wore a traditional clear plastic wrapper. They rode on in silence. The snack smelled good. Turd didn’t know that the company made them that big. They drove for hundreds of more miles before it finally spoke.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” it asked politely.
“No, go ahead.”
The package looked bigger next to him. It flicked the ashes out the window and exhaled.
“So where are you from?” it asked.
“Back on the rez,” Turd answered.
“Oh yeah.” Responded the snack cake. “Lots of my family go there. Myself, I’m not really Swiss. I came from a factory in Ohio. It’s a misnomer. There isn’t really a Debbie either. She’s just a marketing gimmick.”