By the time the glitter exploded, Brody’s tongue already felt like it was on fire.
Not the fun kind of fire either—not “extra jalapeños on a Friday night in Los Angeles” kind of heat. This was chemical-accident, emergency-room, what-have-I-done level heat, the kind that pulsed from the back of his throat all the way up behind his eyes.
He tried to swallow, wheezed instead, and slapped a hand against his chest as a cloud of gold shimmer fanned up out of his insulated delivery bag and coated him from chin to chest. Specks of glitter stuck to his eyelashes, his lips, the front of his red Food Flash polo.
In the dim parking lot of a California apartment complex, under the orange glow of a flickering streetlight and the distant roar of the freeway, he must have looked insane: a grown man, coughing glitter, clutching an empty corn dog stick, standing beside a faded Toyota with a giant insulated bag in the back seat.
If you’d rolled down your window at that exact moment and asked him, “How did this happen?” there were a lot of places the story could have started.
He’d probably tell you it started with the pay.
Or the tips.
He’d be lying.
This story really started with a meat lover’s pizza on Sherwood Forest Drive.
“Where is 523 Sherwood Forest?” Brody muttered, squinting at his phone screen. The Food Flash app map pulsed, a little red dot inching toward a cul-de-sac lined with almost identical beige houses.
“What did these people do,” he grumbled as he turned, “watch Robin Hood one too many times?”
He eased his car to the curb, glanced down at the receipt stuck to the hot cardboard box on the seat beside him.
MEAT LOVERS – LARGE – EXTRA CHEESE
Deliver to: 523 Sherwood Forest
Customer notes: “Please be quick, kids are starving.”
Brody’s stomach growled.
He’d been driving for four hours straight through suburban Southern California traffic, bouncing between chain restaurants, cramped apartments, and gated communities, watching the same story play out over and over on his app screen: he drove, he delivered, Food Flash paid, customers tipped when they felt like it.
Tips, he’d quickly learned, were not guaranteed.
But the food? The food was right there.
He parked, grabbed the box, and the smell hit him: salt, fat, melted cheese, pepperoni grease soaking into the cardboard. He swallowed hard, tried to ignore the sudden ache under his ribs.
“I’ll just check it,” he told himself, lifting the lid. “Make sure it looks okay.”
The toppings glistened in the late afternoon light. The pepperoni on one slice had curled up into perfect little cups. There was a single glistening bead of oil inside one, catching the sunlight like a drop of gold.
He didn’t think.
He just reached down, pinched that slice, and took a bite.
He closed his eyes. The crust was crisp at the edge and soft underneath, the cheese stretching just enough. The pepperoni snapped, the sausage was seasoned just so, and the bacon—
He bit again.
He told himself he’d stop at the edge of the slice.
He did not stop at the edge of the slice.
By the time the dust settled in his brain, the top half of the pizza looked like a crime scene. The cheese had been peeled back, the meat ripped away in ragged gaps.
Brody stared at it.
“Well,” he said finally, “it’s still mostly a meat lover’s.”
He carefully scooted the remaining meat toward the center, nudging a sad chunk of sausage onto a naked patch of cheese, then slapped the lid shut and hustled up the walkway to a door with a worn welcome mat and a kid’s scooter leaning against the railing.
He rang the bell.
“Come on in,” someone called. “It’s open!”
He nudged the door open with his elbow. Inside, a TV blared, a dog barked, and a man in sweatpants came padding toward him.
“Hey, man,” Brody said, keeping the box tilted just enough to hide the damage. “I got your meat lovers right here.”
The guy took the box, lifted the lid, and froze.
“That’s a meat lovers?” he asked slowly.
“Yeah, it is,” Brody said brightly. “Most of it.”
“Most of it?” the guy repeated. “Looks like most of it has nothing on it. What happened to all the meat?”
Brody shrugged. “What am I, in charge of the zoo? I just deliver these things.”
“Somebody ate my toppings,” the man said. “They ate my toppings before it got here.”
“Look, I don’t know who,” Brody said. “But to be honest? It seems to happen a lot at this place.”
He said it with just enough weary frustration that the guy frowned at the pizza, then at the receipt, then at his own phone.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Half a meat lover’s pizza. Whatever.”
Brody turned to go.
“Wait, man,” he said, spinning back. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The guy blinked. “What?”
“My tip,” Brody said, tapping his stomach. “A guy’s gotta eat, you know.”
The man stared at the mangled pizza, then at Brody, then sighed, reached into his pocket, and slapped a crumpled bill into Brody’s hand.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
To Brody, it felt like proof of concept.
You could eat first, complain later, and still walk away with money in your pocket.
Easy.
Too easy.
“Welcome to Burning Mouth,” the woman behind the counter drawled later that week, voice as warm as the Tennessee flag hanging behind her. “What can I get for y’all?”
Brody pushed his Food Flash hat back on his head and leaned against the counter, letting the restaurant’s air conditioning wash over him. Outside, the Southern California sun baked the strip mall parking lot, heat bouncing off the asphalt.
“Well, I’m kind of in the mood for some Nashville hot chicken,” he said, eyeing the menu board full of combos named things like “Koo-Koo Combo” and “Honky Tonk Heat.”
“All the combos are on the board,” she said with a smile. “Let me know what you’re fixin’ for. We’ll have it ready for you lickety split.”
He grinned. “I’m actually here with Food Flash. I’m just picking up an order for the Jacksons.”
“Jackson…” she said, checking her screen. “Jackson. Here we go. They got the Koo-Koo Combo, Southern fries, and Texas toast. Mmm.” She lifted the to-go box and the smell of fried chicken, cayenne, and something smoky filled the air. “That smells good.”
“You got a bag for this?” he asked, trying to sound casual even as his stomach growled.
“Why, sure,” she said, slipping the boxes into a paper sack. “Here you go. Y’all have a nice day.”
“I love Southern hospitality,” he muttered as he walked out. “California could learn a thing or two.”
He set the bag on the passenger seat, closed the door, and the smell intensified in the small car. Heat and spice and grease curled around him.
Brody swallowed.
“This is dumb,” he told himself. “You already ate before your shift. You’ve got a full route. Just drive.”
He drove.
Three blocks.
By the time he hit the red light at the corner, his eyes were flicking between the road and the bag.
He cracked it open.
Orange-red sauce glistened on the chicken. Steam rose in curls.
“I’m just checking,” he told himself again. “Quality control. Food safety. Whatever.”
He picked up a piece and took a bite.
His mouth exploded.
“Whoo!” he gasped, jerking the steering wheel as his tongue ignited. “That’s why they call it Burning Mouth.”
He coughed, eyes watering, but his hand went back for another bite anyway.
By the time he finally pulled up in front of the Jacksons’ house—a tidy two-story with stars-and-stripes bunting still hanging from the porch rail—his lips were tingling and the box was noticeably lighter.
He rang the bell.
“There you are,” a man said when he opened the door. “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”
“The food’s hot,” Brody said, holding up the bag. “And it’s good.”
“It all better be here,” the guy said, taking the bag.
“Yeah, it is,” Brody said. “Extra spicy. Just like you ordered it.”
The man set the bag on a side table, opened the box, and frowned. “I see the fries,” he said. “I see the Texas toast. But only half the chicken is here.”
“The only reason there’s anything in there,” Brody said before he could stop himself, “is because it was too spicy.”
The man stared at him. “What does it being too spicy have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know,” Brody said. “Take it up with Burning Mouth. Just let me get my tip and get out of here.”
It worked.
Again.
Not well.
But it worked.
And as far as Brody was concerned, that was enough.
Hot Dog On a Stick smelled like nostalgia and fryer oil.
The stand sat in the food court of a worn but busy California mall, its bright primary colors and striped uniforms like something out of an old commercial. High school kids in red and yellow hats dropped battered hot dogs into vats of oil and smiled for customers they were already tired of.
“Welcome to Hot Dog On a Stick,” the manager said. “May I take your order?”
“Food Flash,” Brody said, tugging at his hat. “Got an order for Clemens?”
“Oh, Clemens,” the manager said. “They’re good customers.” He turned to the back. “Four deluxe stick dogs and seasoned fries!”
A minute later, two paper bags landed on the counter. “Four deluxe stick dogs, seasoned fries,” the manager said. “Here you go.”
Brody frowned at his phone. “Four?” he asked. “What about the extra ones?”
“Extra ones?” the manager repeated. “What are you talking about?”
“Says here you shorted them two last time,” Brody said, sliding the order screen forward. “You gotta make it up or what?”
“We don’t short anybody around here,” the manager said. “If they didn’t get their dogs, then something’s wrong with the delivery.”
“What do I look like, Judge Judy?” Brody asked. “Why don’t you just give them a couple extra stick dogs so you don’t lose a good customer?”
The manager scowled, but he hesitated. Repeat customers were king in American mall food courts, especially these days.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Repeat customers are hard to come by.”
He bagged two more corn dogs and slid the bag across. “Here you go.”
“That’s right,” Brody said, hefting the bag. “Good customer service is what I’m all about.”
At home, his roommate was waiting.
“Food delivery,” Brody announced as he shouldered the door open, bag in hand.
“Hey, man,” Topher called from the couch. “How’s the new job going?”
“This gig is sweet,” Brody said, dropping the bag on the coffee table and flopping down beside him. “I get paid for every delivery, I get tips, and I get free food too.”
“Free?” Topher asked, flipping through channels. “You mean they let you take leftovers?”
“Something like that,” Brody said, fishing out a stick dog and taking a big bite. “You still down to hang out after work tomorrow? I’ll take you somewhere fancy.”
“Fancy?” Topher asked. “Like where?”
“The movies,” Brody said.
“Movies?” Topher grinned. “Do I get to pick this time?”
“Let’s not get crazy,” Brody said. “We both know I have better taste in movies.”
They laughed.
Later, when Brody leaned over the bathroom sink gulping water straight from the faucet, his mouth on fire from some leftover hot chicken he’d scavenged, he didn’t feel like laughing.
“Babe, are you okay?” his girlfriend asked on the phone that night.
“Yeah,” he said, wiping his face on a towel. “I’m okay. I just wish these people would stop ordering spicy food.”
“You don’t have to eat it,” she pointed out.
He looked at the empty containers in the trash.
Didn’t he, though?
The unraveling started with a phone call.
“Something wrong with your order?” the woman’s voice was sharp through the receiver at Hot Dog On a Stick the next day.
“How can that be?” the manager asked her. “Was it cold?”
“No,” she said. “We ordered four of your hot dogs on a stick and only got three.”
“Well, that’s why we gave you two extra to make up for last time,” he said. “The driver said you—”
“Extra?” she snapped. “We didn’t even get what we ordered. You need to talk to your delivery people.”
“We don’t do the deliveries,” he said. “That’s Food Flash.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” she said, “I’m going to call Food Flash and complain.”
“No, don’t do that,” he blurted. “I’ll take care of it.”
After he hung up, he stared at the phone for a moment, then grabbed his keys and headed out of the mall.
Across town, in a strip of low-slung brick buildings near a freeway exit, Gino’s Pizzeria was also simmering—not just with tomato sauce and melted cheese, but with irritation.
“Gino, there you are,” the manager of Hot Dog On a Stick said as he walked in. “Have you had any problems with Food Flash lately?”
“Food Flash?” Gino asked, sliding a pizza into the brick oven. “I’m done with those guys.”
“What do you mean?”
“They used to be fine,” Gino said. “But nowadays, anytime I have an order with them, some dogs go missing.”
“Dogs?” the manager frowned. “On a stick?”
Gino smirked. “Yeah, on a stick. I was just talking to Mary Lou over at Burning Mouth. She’s got the exact same problem. Missing chicken, missing hot dogs, missing toppings.”
“So it’s not just us,” the manager said.
“Sounds like that Food Flash place is ripping the restaurants off,” Gino said.
“I don’t think it’s Food Flash,” the manager said slowly. “I think it’s the driver.”
Gino nodded. “I think I know how we can figure this out.”
“Food Flash restaurant support,” the call center agent said cheerfully, somewhere in an office park in another state, headset perched on her head.
“Hey, I’m calling from Gino’s Pizzeria in Riverside,” Gino said. “I think one of your drivers is a bad egg.”
“Oh really?” she asked. “What kind of trouble are you experiencing?”
“Me and some of the other restaurant owners think he’s eating into our business,” Gino said.
“Eating into your…” she repeated, then snorted. “Oh, he thinks he’s clever, does he? You need to fight fire with fire.”
“How do you mean?” Gino asked.
She lowered her voice. “You want him off your route?”
“Yeah,” Gino said. “Preferably permanently.”
“Then listen up.”
“Mary Lou,” Gino said a few days later as he stepped into Burning Mouth, the smell of cayenne hitting him like a slap. “I think I have a solution to your missing chicken problem.”
“Good,” Mary Lou said, crossing her arms over her apron. “Because where I come from, we don’t take kindly to chicken thieves.”
“You still got any of that top secret extra spicy special sauce?” Gino asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, we do. But one drop’s guaranteed to burn your tongue off.”
“Perfect,” Gino said. “Next time that driver comes in, I want you to give him this.” He slid a small bottle across the counter.
She picked it up, read the label. Her lips curled into a slow smile.
“If he eats that chicken,” she said, “he won’t be able to talk for a month.”
“That’s the idea,” Gino said.
Across town, at Hot Dog On a Stick, Gino had a different plan.
“Frank,” he said to the manager. “You got a minute?”
“Hey, Gino,” Frank said. “What’s up?”
“There’s something I want you to do next time that Food Flash driver comes in,” Gino said.
“That guy?” Frank asked. “I’d be happy to never see him again.”
“Well, I don’t think you will,” Gino said, “if you follow my plan.”
He set a small, square device on the counter. “Pull out one of those delivery bags you got back there,” he said.
Frank fetched a big red insulated bag from the back room. Gino unzipped it and set the device inside.
“What is that?” Frank asked.
“A motion-activated fan,” Gino said. “By itself, doesn’t do much. Until…”
He opened a container of ultra-fine gold glitter and poured a generous layer on top of the fan.
Frank’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute. If I do that…”
“The second he moves the bag,” Gino said, zipping it up again, “he’s going to get glitter all over him.”
Frank laughed. “Man, his girlfriend’s going to think he joined a dance troupe.”
“Or robbed a craft store,” Gino said. “Either way, when Food Flash comes asking questions, he’ll be the easiest guy in the world to spot.”
A few days later, when the Food Flash app on Brody’s phone pinged with a pickup from Burning Mouth, he didn’t suspect anything.
He rolled into the parking lot, humming along with whatever pop song was on the radio, and checked the address on his next drop.
“Four-seven-seven Broadway,” he read aloud. “Why does that sound familiar?”
He shrugged. “Oh well. What do we have today? Hot chicken. Again.”
He parked, walked into Burning Mouth, and leaned against the counter like always. Mary Lou greeted him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Got an order for Harrison,” he said, flashing his Food Flash lanyard.
“Oh, we got it,” she said, already packing up the Koo-Koo Combo. She took a bottle from under the counter and, when she thought he wasn’t looking, drizzled something extra over one piece.
The smell hit him as soon as she closed the lid.
It was like the regular sauce… but angrier.
“Here you go,” she said, sliding the bag over. “Koo-Koo Combo, extra special. Y’all have a nice day now.”
He lifted the bag.
Hot.
He walked out.
Hotter.
He set it on the passenger seat.
His tongue tingled just from being near it.
“This stuff is spicy,” he muttered. “Guess that’s why they call it Burning Mouth.”
He reached into the bag.
“Just one,” he told himself. “Just one piece. You’re practically doing them a favor making sure it’s not poisonous.”
He took a big bite.
The world went white.
“Hot!” he wheezed, pounding his fist against the steering wheel. “Hot, hot, hot—”
Even his fingers burned where the sauce had touched them.
He stuck his hand out the window, shaking it, sweating through his shirt. His vision blurred. By the time he delivered the bag—mostly sealed—to Gino’s apartment at 477 Broadway, he could barely speak.
“Food Flash,” he said hoarsely when Gino opened the door. “You order hot chicken?”
“I sure did,” Gino said, eyeing the sweat on his face. “Don’t I know you?”
Brody squinted. “You’re the guy that owns the pizza place,” he said slowly. “What are you doing ordering chicken?”
“Man can’t live on pizza alone,” Gino said. “Sometimes he’s gotta have something else.”
Brody sniffed. His eyes were watering. His lips burned.
“Are you all right?” Gino asked. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Looks like you’re sweating.”
“I ate something spicy,” Brody managed. “Like… hot tamales.”
“Candy?” Gino asked innocently.
“Hot tamales,” Brody confirmed, nodding too hard. “Right.”
“Anyway,” Gino said. “Just give me my chicken.”
Brody handed him the bag. “You got like a bottled water?” he croaked. “I can have?”
“Water?” Gino asked. “Sure. I’ll bring it down to your car.”
“Okay,” Brody said. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”
He staggered back to his car.
His throat pulsed.
His stomach lurched.
His head pounded.
He needed something to soak it up.
“Water, food, something,” he muttered, fumbling with the zipper on his insulated bag. “Wait. I know. I got stick dogs.”
He yanked open the Hot Dog On a Stick bag in the back seat. Inside, four corn dogs lay in perfect golden rows.
He grabbed one, ripped off the paper, and took a huge bite.
The second his teeth sank in, the glitter trap sprung.
The motion-activated fan in the bottom of his delivery bag whirred to life, blowing a gale of ultra-fine gold glitter straight up into his face.
It was in his mouth.
His nose.
His eyes.
He choked, spitting glitter and corn dog crumbs, waving his arms as sparkling dust coated his shirt, his hair, his steering wheel.
“Hey,” Gino said, walking up with a plastic water bottle just in time to catch the spectacle. “Got your water right here.”
Brody looked up, eyes wild, gold flecks stuck to his eyelashes.
“Somebody booby-trapped the stick dogs,” he gagged. “They did something to my food.”
“Oh,” Gino said. “So you’ve been eating the customer food, have you?”
“Just this one time,” Brody lied.
“Just this one time?” Gino asked. “Why don’t you tell that to this guy?”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen.
A voice came over the speaker. “Hello? This is Bill Johansen, president of Food Flash. Who am I speaking with?”
Brody swallowed hard. Glitter tickled the back of his throat.
He knew that name. Every delivery driver did. It was printed at the bottom of the company emails about “family,” “trust,” and “brand integrity.”
“You must be Brody,” the voice said. “We’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
“Yes, Mr. Johansen,” Brody rasped. “It’s such an honor to talk to you.”
“I wish I could say it’s an honor to talk to you,” Johansen said. “But I can’t. Because you, sir, are a disgrace to Food Flash.”
“Disgrace?” Brody echoed. “Why do you say that? Is this about… testing the food?”
“You’re a thief,” Johansen said flatly. “You’ve been stealing from customers and from our restaurant partners. People like you give every food delivery driver a bad name.”
Brody looked down at himself—glitter-coated, tongue swollen, hands sticky with sauce—and felt something crack inside his chest.
“I’m firing you,” Johansen continued. “Effective immediately. And I’m going to make sure you never work as a delivery driver anywhere ever again.”
“Fired?” Brody whispered. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Nobody answered.
Gino handed him the bottle of water anyway.
Because this was still America, and even when you’d messed up, sometimes somebody would still help you rinse the glitter out of your eyes.
But the job?
The free food?
The easy tips?
Those were gone.
And somewhere in Riverside and in that mall and behind the counter at Burning Mouth, small business owners checked their next Food Flash deliveries, found everything inside still intact, and smiled.
For once, the only thing missing from their orders was a certain hungry driver.
