By Raanan Geberer
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
One day, at work, I was busy typing away, when one of my co-workers whispered in my ear, “At lunch, you might to see someone on the fifth floor of your building. He has the real s----. I told him about you.”
I couldn’t wait that long. I had to have it NOW! I excused myself, went upstairs and knocked on the door, sweating and breathing heavily.
“Are you Ron?” asked a shady little man in a big hat and a long coat.
‘Come in,” he said. “We’ve got to be really careful. The cops were here yesterday. We got the stuff you need.”
“Is it the REAL stuff? From Canada, or Mexico?”
“No,” he said, “Our shipments got messed up. But my man down in Florida made it, according to the original recipe. He used to be a meth dealer, but now he finds doing this more profitable.”
The man ushered me into his backroom. There, on the table, were about 100 of the golden-colored cakes, stacked on top of each other. Several nondescript middle-aged women, most of whom appeared to be immigrants, were packing them into glassine envelopes.
I paid the man $100, and ate two or three of them as fast as I could. The man looked at me with amusement. He knew he had me. But this wasn’t enough—there was something else I needed.
“Thanks for the Twinkies,” I said, “but I can’t take that much of a rush. I need some Snowballs to bring me down. Do you have any?”
Without a word, he ushered me into another room. I began to grab a Snowball, when he grabbed my arm.
“Just one, m-------r!” he said, pulling out a knife. “We’re running out of them. These are expensive, you know!”
I gave him another hundred dollars. Biting into the Snowball’s marshmallow exterior, I felt a supreme joy—a joy the average person will ever know.
I read yesterday that another company is buying the rights to Twinkies, Snowballs, and Hostess orange-colored cupcakes. Soon, I’ll be just another American. But until then, I’ll be an addict, a creature of night, another slave to the sugary goo that has ruined so many people’s lives.