I walked to the next house after a series of fast-paced candy grabs the year of my second grade Halloween plunder. Evaluating the extra pieces I conned out of the past few houses, I discovered something sinister. Something that shook the bones off my skeleton costume.
Black licorice.
This twisted piece of deer shit tainted the beauty of a king size 100 Grand Bar resting its supple figure along-side its fellow Halloween delicacies. The leather boot taste of this garbage candy cripples the taste buds of all those who dare to try it and renders their ability to ever feel enjoyment again completely hopeless.
They say the witches of Salem would organize black licorice into the shape of a pentagram to summon demons, but most of the time they would not come because it is too foul an object for even the damned. Best case scenario black licorice should lay in the back of the pantry collecting dust because even the mice will not partake in defiling their mouths with this abomination to taste.
As the clear package holding the number one cause of childhood trauma stared at me, I reached in to grab it before it sank to the bottom and would burden me with its hideousness later in the night. Walking up to my childhood friend Sydney, I tentatively asked if she would like to trade. I held my breath almost popping my ears in anticipation of her response.
She looked at the package through her lizard mask and then back at me. Did she know what I was doing? Has she experienced the trepidation of oblivion black licorice leaves in your soul? “Sure! I’ll give you a KitKat for it,” she replied. For a moment I felt true calm as if I were floating in the Black Sea as I exchanged trash for candy.
Soon after I realized the harm that I had done. I did not see her eat it, but I often ponder on the suffering I caused that poor girl all those years ago. Pawing off evil has condemned me to hell, but I really enjoyed that KitKat.