NationStates Jolt Archive

What is the Death Burrito?

Let's hear your theories.

The best one wins a fantastic prize!

P.S. You might not like the prize.

Well, it all started when those two alien dudes decided to fly down to Earth and fry up Homer Simpson. They wanted to make him into a pancake, but he was so fat, he made the pancake too thin. Naturally they didn't want a pancake too thin, so they decided it was a tortilla. You get where I'm going? Well, they didn't know that the Romulans were coming to visit Earth the same day they did. The Romulans attacked the two alien dudes, and accidentally spilled iodine on the tortilla. They didn't realize that, though, they just thought it was strangely dyed. So they took it to their ship and spread some beans on it. Then they got caught in a time warp and the tortilla-with-beans fell out of the ship, onto a planet made of primarily uranium. The uranium and iodine reacted to create a substance that looked like rice, so when Captain Picard came and picked it up, he thought, "Hmm, the beginnings of a burrito," and put cheese on it. He rolled it up, but at that moment two universes merged and it ended up in the hand of an America's Next Top Model contestant. She tried to throw it in the trash, but the trash can had just been bleached and the chlorine made the burrito come alive and start shoving itself down her windpipe.

Ever since it made that poor anorexic girl suffocate and vomit at the same time, it has been known as the Death Burrito.

And we're off to an excellent start. :D

What is the Death Burrito?

Let's hear your theories.

The best one wins a fantastic prize!

P.S. You might not like the prize.
i think it was the burrito i ate before going to work at school today, hit about 7th period but i had to hold it an hour and a half, cuz the teacher can't disappear for 15 minutes into the restroom to commune with his bowels.

The Death Burrito. The name still haunts me, keeping me awake 'til the first rays of dawn approach. Hunted. Caged. Boxed in. The Death Burrito is on the march again.

It all started on a cattle ranch raising genetically modified livestock...and it ends here, tonight, on the flaming rooftop of a burning taco franchise. Come on, Death Burrito. Daddy's gotcher sour cream. Just come a little closer, now...

Goddamn! It's burned me with its' corrosive capsecum blood! Aaaargh! Must...hold out, must...take antacid...it can't - end like this??

No-o-o-o-o-o-o-!

The Death Burrito is the "burrito" that used to be served at "Tex-Mex Bubble Gum", a small hole-in-the wall "Tex-Mex" place in down town Sakai (my suburb of Osaka). The place went out of business years ago.

The Tex-Mex Bubble Gum burrito was filled with a mixture of mashed potatos, peas, carrots, and a little plain ground beef. It's called the death burrito, because I told Masato (the owner/chef) I'd kill him if he ever commited such a horrible crime again again.

(Mostly ture story. :eek: :( )

Or it could be the burrito that inspired the song "The Night I Dreamed I was Elvis", a song by a local Houston band called the Dishes. David Bean, the singer, claimed the song was inspired by a late night 7-11 or Circle-K burrito eaten on the way back from a gig. Great song, fun band, too bad they broke up just before the release of their second album, which contained that song, and was never released. (I only heard it once, while I was in college. They played my little central Texas school in 1987. Tells you how good the song was, eh? :))

...it's everywhere! Everywhere! It's game over, man, game over!

Damn it, man get ahold of yourself. I want you and Vasquez to cover the soda fountain- Hicks! Keep that food prep station open. Dobbs Town!

Yes sir?

Get that cutlery ready, son- and don't stop eating 'til you hear my command. Got that?

Yes sir!

20 metres...15...10...they should be inside the restaurant now...

I have traveled this world, and seen many things. I have witnessed the first light of dawn as it ricocheted off the Great Cadmium Iceberg, and watched the moon rise through the branches of the banyans of the Amazon basin. I have taken tea with the Emir of Al-Achmanii, and shared the best of the wine cellars of the wealthiest men of Zurich.

But of all the wonders I have seen, and all the pleasures I have shared, I would trade them all, and have the memory of them vanish into blackness, if only they would take with them the one memory that haunts my nightmares for 10 years now.

The Death Burrito.

On the ragged edges of my recollection, I can summon up the ghost of a time when my life was not defined by that one encounter. I was an ordinary young man. I spent my days like any other guy my age; putting in my 40 hours a week as Senior Towel Boy at the Mustang Ranch Brothel in Arizona, weekends engaged in my quest to become an Olympic Skeet Shooter. My life was to take a drastic turn when I won a raffle prize from the Sisters of Semi-Perpetual Virtue School and Bait Shoppe. The Grand Prize: a mysterious but intriguing oil lamp, rumored to be from the very halls of the Pasha of Iskandar. The second prize, which I won, was an all-expense paid vacation to Wheeling, West Virginia.

More to follow …

The Death Burrito?

That was my prison name.

When I arrived in Wheeling, West Virginia, I was greeted my travel guide, Inga Hirokawa, a one-armed limousine driver of Danish/Japanese decent who spoke no English but could, as I was to find out in the next week, make the most perfect Piña Colada this side of Valhalla. She had been advised to take me wherever I wished for the next five days and four nights, as long as I could communicate the destination to her. It short order, we devised a rudimentary language that combined various hoots and whistles, along with furious gesticulation at a large folding map.

After a brief side-trip to drop my luggage off at the Emperor Suite of the Wheeling Hyatt-Regency, we sauntered off on a jolly, relaxed tour of the region. Inga was an apt tour guide, pointing out various significant geographic or historical locations while continuing to steer with her knees. Roughly two hours into our jaunt, she drew my attention to a mountain in the distance.

“Mountain”, she hooted.

I agreed that it was, indeed, a mountain, and continued to enjoy my surroundings, when she stopped the car and pointer fervently to the peak.

“Mountain”, she hooted. “Food. Power.”
“Doom.”

More to follow …

The Death Burrito?

Is when the person who made the Burrito didn't wash his hands after he came out of the toilet after having a really really bad purge.

How I let her hoot me into it I can’t divulge, but suffice to say I owed Inga a favour the next morning, so we found ourselves at the foot of the Pisgaloocha Mountain range, preparing for an ascent. Considering her lack of a second arm, she was a swift and able mountain climber, and I found myself hard-pressed at various points in the assault on the peak to keep pace with her.

Before the summit, though, she led me to a path, invisible from the valley below. A few kilometers along, through a field of poppies and across a stream of the coldest, clearest water I have ever lapped up on my hands and knees, we found ourselves at the mouth of a small cave, barely large enough to push our packs through, and then crawl into ourselves.

It was dark.

I fumbled blind through my pack for a torch, but before I could locate one Inga quickly grabbed me and wrestled me to the ground. Sensing something was on her mind that we had yet to develop a sufficient hoot to communicate, I lay still on the dank floor of the cave. Inga produced a torch from her lederhosen, and I soon learned the reason for what I had naively assumed was a moment of youthful amour.

We found ourselves on the edge of a sheer precipice, perhaps 10 kilometers deep, perhaps a thousand. The darkness hid it’s depths, and I was never all that good at the trick where you drop a pebble and listen to when it hits to determine the distance it had fallen. Perhaps if I had paid more attention in elementary Physics …

There was, however, a slender pathway winding along the wall of the cave to an opening on the opposite side. It was to this opening that Inga pointed and hooted softly.

“Food”
“Power”
“Doom”
“Go”

More to follow …

After carefully navigating the slender walkway and through the opening, we made our way along the lichen-encrusted walls of a long, downward-sloping tunnel. My occasional efforts to ask Inga how she knew of this place were greeted with tersely hooted commands for silence. It was clear to me, though, that she had been here before.

In due time, the tunnel opened into another cavern. It did not take long for me to realize that our torch was no longer required, as the cavern was lit from within by what appeared to be, and I soon discovered actually was, a large and rather ostentatious chandelier. Beneath it’s light sat, in a large and apparently mechanized recliner, a man with a long white beard, wearing a red “union suit” and puffing furiously on a meerschaum pipe.

“So, you have returned. And you have brought yet another Champion with you,” he hooted, as I stood wondering how he had learned our secret language. I was beginning to suspect that something was amiss when the old man addressed me in perfect French.

“I see that she has not explained why you have come. Sit down, and I will enlighten you.” He gestured to an aluminum folding-chair beside a card table. On the table sat a microwave oven. I took a seat, wondering if perhaps I had gotten myself into something a bit over my head, when quick as lightning, the old man leaps over and handcuffs my left arm to the chair.

“Struggle all you desire, my accidental opponent. It will do you very little GOOD!”

“That chair,” he continued, “is made of sturdy aluminum. You will not be able to break that bond so easily. You must first face the challenge.”

More to follow …

Feel free to pick up where I left off. Otherwise I will pick up about 12 hours from now.

I'll tell you what a Burrito of Death is.

The Taco PorkSplosion!!

A burrito Stuffed with a giant slab of pork with a massive amount of Katchup. Garenteed to kill you with one bite.

The death-burrito was a secred weapon developed by the british institute for language researchs "operative" branch, the IPR, or Inarticulate Populace Reeducatiors. Lately, IPRs focus has shifted from mad texans unable to read telepromters properly, and over to leatspeaking CS-playing, uhh, texans. (The IPR only has only been given mandate to operate in Texas. Originally, theyre mandate covered the hole world outside GBs borders, but due to some massacres caused by overzealous agents (mainly in france, but you wont have heard of them, theyre all covered up), they were restricted to an area where such insidents would be less conspicious.

The developement on the new super weapon, the death burrito was initiated when scientist proved a corelation between burrito-consumtion pr. year and the percentage of an individuals sentences infested with the foul leetspeak. Deciding merely shooting everyone eating burritos would be slightly overkill, not to say rather, ehh, dangerous, for only three agents, highly trained as they might be(this is Texas after all), the IPR devoloped a brainwashing poison, and through an amazing feat of luck, discovered that if this was combined with burritos, it would not only stop the consumer from leetspeaking, it would stop him from speaking at all, and start using all his time on making more poisoned burritos.

The IPR had just made the first burrito, and was had infiltrated one of those horrible places selling the filthy things, when the first customer pulled a gun and shot them all. Those in the know would later find out he was an agent for the PMF, the agency for promotion of malaysian food, stopping the idiot british agents in granting the horrible burrito world domination. He destroyed the IPR agents brains, making sure they couldnt be brainsucked to retrieve the reciepe for the poison, and snuck away with the death burrito.

Hmm. First start with a sack of economy mince, add three packets of hot chilli powder and two bottles of Tabasco sauce. Boil off all the water then add oil (being a Death Burrito I suppose you'd want ghee..) until the meat is completely submerged (yes I do actually make chilli like this..) Fry the mince until it's crispy, then add more Tabasco, onions both raw and fried and a few generous handfuls of habenero peppers.
Roll not in a tortilla but a 15" pizza, then flash-fry the whole thing so as not to ruin the peppers. Serve wrapped in the skin of a Gypsy flayed alive.

I AM THE DEATH BURRTIO!!!


YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME!!!!

MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

The wisened old man sat down in the mechanical chair, and gently stroked a glassy patch on the left armrest. Nothing happened at first. It appeared the man felt some sort of affection for his chair, or was insane from the years of confinement. Suddenly, the chair sprang into life, mechanical legs folding from its underbelly and a single rusty pincer thrusting towards my neck. I made to scream, but the pincer was faster. It grabbed me bround the neck.

Throughout this tirade, the old man kept his gnarled hand upon the glassy area, making jerky little movements. This was how the chair was moving.

"Your first ordeal is to find me...the mince of al-akhballa!" screamed this nightmare apparition of a person. A quick jolt on the glass-pad, and a second pincer thrust forward; this however was not to kill me, but holding an object. Like a maniacal St. Nick, he thrust the object into my lap. Throughout this, Inga had remained motionless. Now, she bowed, almost in reverence, hooting softly to herself.

"This, is the sacred mincer from the Casserole mines of the land of Beef." He croaked. I gasped. Having only heard of this in fables told by blind sailors, I had believed it pure fantasy. The mincer had a torrid history, filled with Kings, Stableboys, and a hell of a lot of gore. The stories usually ended with 'and that's how I lost my eyes', but I never took any notice.

Now, however, I could see the vile monstrosity. It was a shiny, obsidian coloured contraption, with an open set of blades at the top and a blackened meat dispenser at the side. It was obviously a tool of destruction, but for whom? The old veteran looked at me. I questioned, voice trembling, "What do I do?"

He leaned closer, using the mechanical chair like an appendage of his own body, a cyborg of death. "You must take one of Grand Visier al-akhballa's prime thargas, and mince it whole. Be warned, though, the herd is telepathic and telekinetic. You must be quick and stealthy. Only then will you survive. Inga will be your guide. Be warned, though. I watch constantly. Attempt to flee," new evil and glee entered his almond eyes, "and I will hunt you for the rest of your days. Now leave!"

The handcuff sprang open, and I blindly fled into the dark, Inga following. I knew what I must do. I would head for the Palace of Al-akhballa, and carry out this task. As if I had any other choice...

More to follow...

I'm riveted! Tell me more, storyteller! :eek:

Ah! The Death Burrito!!!!

The Fabled homeless mexican that makes his home out of tortillas and dead leaves.

Him and The Shierff Justice, and Deputy Freedom stand on the side of the road and throw rocks at cars!!!!

....Damn hobos...

Honorable Mention to Dobbs Town for an excellent use of movie schtick.

The Death Burrito was the last Steak Burrito Surpeme from Taco Bell I had... ;)

The maniacal laughter echoed through the caves as Inga, taking the lead, brought us back to daylight. My mind was racing at the implications of what had just transpired, so much so that the decent of the mountain is but a faint and hazy blur in my recollection of the matter. Would that the days following were as hazy, but they are seared into my memory. SEARED, I say!

Barely a word was hooted between us as Inga drove me to the secluded airstrip. We boarded the plane, a dilapidated surplus US Army Sherpa, designed for low-altitude flight. I found it well stocked with scotch of moderate quality and old comic books (primarily DC’s Metal Men), and I immediately set myself to depleting both, all the while aware that we were headed South to Argentina, where the Grand Vizer of Al-Akballa kept his vacation home. There, he kept his personal herd of thargas, for the purpose of extracting their milk so that he could combine it with various other nefarious ingredients and serve it with a nice brie. It was said that the thraga milk was the secret to his inordinately long life.

We skimmed the waters of the South Atlantic like a stone, and hugged the South American terrain like a pair of Shakira’s jeans, rising occasionally to clear a fenceline. Abruptly, we found ourselves in a landing field, impossibly concealed within the dense overgrowth of the Amazon jungle. Inga, though a competent pilot when it came to low-altitude flying, was not much in the way of landing, and she deployed the debarkation ramp to find me still seated, clutching my seat, a pile of scotch-soaked comicbooks in my lap. Once on the ground, she helped me into my pack, and we started off into the untrackable rainforest of the Amazon Basin.

More to follow …

Mexican Superhero!!!

With his sidekick, the TACO OF DOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!

It is the Death Burrito. The most evil burrito ever created. Forged in darkness from wheat harvested in hell's half acre. Baked by Beelzebub. Filled with meat from the evil cows of Hades force-fed to dogs by the hands of a one eyed mad man. Cheese boiled from the rancid teat of fanged cow. Layered with 666 separate meats from an animal, which has maggots for blood.

With a bed of lettuce

Mysterious hoots surrounded us from the outset. At first I thought nothing of it, as the area was famed for its 'little howlers' which played trickes of pain on each other and then emitted piercing howls. I soon came to realise, however, that there was some form of message concealed within the eerie hoots. No sooner had this thought entered my mind, when the noises abruptly stopped.

Cutting through the jungle, the branches getting ever thicker, I grew hazy. Suddenly, the world went black. I awoke in a beautiful and awe-inspiring palace of gold, porcelain and, strangely, dung. This was no ordinary palace. It was the Grand Visier's holiday home! The dung, as I wistfully recalled, had once saved my life in a duel, when a scantilly clad woman (the tribe's local 'bringer of scotch') had smeared this foul smelling guano over my chest. I was shot, but by then the dung had set hard and repelled the bullet straight into the other man's heart. It was the hardest known substance to man. It also tasted like chicken.

A faint sound came from the end of the room. The door swung open, revealing the Grand Visier's chief concubine. She mutely took my arm and led me to his chamber. "Ahh, I see you are awake" came the croaky voice of a wisened old man. He seemed to have an aura about him of a communist dictator, like an Iron fist concealed within a velvet glove. He was clearly a politician.

"Yes" I replied, "You certainly know how to treat your guests." I was referring to the bed chamber I was housed in, but he took offence.

"Your unconciousness was necessary to hide the whereabouts of my palace, not for my own pleasure or any other reason!" he snapped. "But tell me, why are you here?"

I could not tell him. I would have been run clean through with the scimitar I now felt in the small of my back. What should I say? Suddenly, I knew....

More coming later.

I must hear more of this story!

The Death Burrito is a burrito which kills people. Seriously.