Operation: Taco Mirage
A desert-baked absurdity starring Roberta & Dennis
It started—like most catastrophes do—with Dennis on the internet at 2:17 AM.
“■■■■,” he said, nudging Roberta’s shoulder like a caffeinated meerkat. “You ever hear of Taco Mirage?”
She didn’t open her eyes.
“Is that a new hot sauce or another conspiracy theory?”
“No. It’s ■■■■■■than that. It’s a taco truck that only appears once a year in the Mojave. No address. No GPS. Just clues. Someone online said it changed their life.”
Roberta rolled onto her side.
“Dennis. The last time you said something changed your life, it was a Bluetooth grill thermometer shaped like a steak.”
“That thermometer did change my life. But this… this is sacred. People say the tacos are spiritual. There’s a thread—look, it’s all encrypted coordinates and blurry photos like Bigfoot with a tortilla.”
A pause.
Then a groan.
And finally, the phrase Dennis had been waiting for:
“Fine. But if I get sand in my shoes, I swear to God…”
Road Trip Begins
Two days later, they were rolling through the Mojave in the Bronco, windows down, GPS disabled—by Dennis, of course—because “the taco truck doesn’t want to be found by machines.”
Roberta sipped from a giant gas station coffee and muttered,
“We are the machines.”
Dennis had printed out clues from an online message board. Most were vague, like:
- “Follow the scent of cumin at sunrise.”
- “Look for the lizard wearing sunglasses.”
Roberta cross-referenced them against logic and maps.
Dennis cross-referenced them against gut instinct and whatever his phone’s compass was doing.
They hiked through canyons, camped near rock formations shaped like jalapeños, and argued over whether the hot sauce bottle Dennis found with coordinates scribbled in Sharpie was:
“a real sign” or “someone’s discarded lunch.”
Weird Gets Weirder
On the third night, they found them:
The Followers of the Flame-Grilled Truth.
Roberta spotted them first—six people in aluminum foil sombreros standing around a cactus, chanting in unison and passing around packets of Taco Bell Fire sauce like communion wafers.
Dennis, naturally, asked for directions.
“We seek the Mirage,” one whispered, “but only the Worthy may taste its cornfolded prophecy.”
“Cornfolded… what?” Roberta blinked.
“You must survive the Trial of the Scorching Sands.”
Dennis perked up.
“That sounds official.”
“It’s a sandstorm,” Roberta clarified. “That’s what they mean. Let’s go before we get wrapped into some weird cult tourism.”
But it was too late.
The sky darkened.
And then—drones.
Dozens of them, buzzing like angry bees with GoPros.
“Influencers,” Roberta muttered. “Why did it have to be influencers?”
A caravan of neon dune buggies roared into view, music blasting.
“Donde está el taco truck?” one yelled, wearing nothing but board shorts and a tactical vest.
It was chaos. Dust flew. Cultists scattered. One drone dive-bombed Dennis, who ducked and yelled:
“Protect the hot sauce! It’s got the map!”
The Taco Standoff
They found the truck an hour later—wedged between two boulders, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
No name. No signs. Just the smell of slow-cooked carnitas and something that felt… holy.
The influencers arrived first, live-streaming.
The cultists followed, waving foil hats like war banners.
Dennis?
He stood in front of the order window, clutching the hot sauce bottle like a sacred relic.
Roberta stood beside him, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“We have to act,” Dennis said. “There’s one taco left.”
A pause.
Then Roberta said,
“Give me the drone.”
Dennis handed her their broken drone from earlier—its propellers fried, but camera intact.
She climbed a rock, yelled:
“I have visual confirmation of the Taco Code!”
Then played a looping video of a taco being handed to someone in a sombrero.
Everyone paused. Gasped.
It was enough.
While the cultists and influencers argued over what it meant, Roberta strolled to the window, paid exact change, and claimed the last taco.
She handed it to Dennis.
He took one bite and looked like he’d seen God.
“Transcendent,” he whispered.
Resolution
Back in the Bronco, taco wrapper in hand, Dennis stared out at the desert in awe.
“Do you think it’ll appear next year?”
Roberta started the engine.
“Next year, we’re going to Chili’s.”
Dennis smiled.
“Only if they have churros.”
She didn’t answer.
But the smirk gave her away.