Origins: 23 Flavors (Black Licorice)

99 Flavors

A Vickie

Ain’t One

“There's a difference between guilt and shame, right? Guilt is like a wave passing over; you feel it and it's gone. Shame is that other shit. Deep, dark corners of your mind. Don't let the shame keep you down. You're a good dude.” — Tater’s Tots, when the fuck ever

Waco, Texas

1882

Doctor Elvis Pepper had been hard at work in his basement apartment, which he had essentially turned into a chemistry lab after leaving his family behind to pursue his ambitions, much to the chagrin of his angry ex-wife, Doris.

Sounds like Doris is the 1800’s equivalent to 2000’s Karen.

But the thing about Doctor Elvis Pepper that one must always remember is that he was overwhelmed with shame. The shame of abandonment. The shame of having left.

Both Doris and her chagrin became all that mattered to him, and even more so once he began seeing her, and the rest of his family, as heavy objects that caused him great pangs of shame in his mind, a kind of pain that stabbed sharply in the lobes of his memories.

“Don’t take that Black licorice,” Doris said one particular night when Doctor Pepper was packing his bags, preparing to leave. “In fact, don't you dare take another thing from here. You've taken everything else from me. You took my heart, and you won't give it back. You took Johnny's too.”

She practically spat as she said, “I hope you have the courage to at least say goodbye to him.”

He was not a courageous man.

Neither was Bobby Dean.

As a flavor chemist, Doctor Elvis Pepper saw potential in all manners of taste. But as he set about his work in that basement apartment, it became clear that his shame had become a greater distraction than he anticipated. He slowly grew more and more frustrated with his failings, and with formula after formula after formula of carbonated beverages that just didn’t cut the mustard, he had grown more desperate.

And as far as he was concerned, the sooner he could get this formula right? The sooner he could become rich, return to his family, and be the hero he wanted to be for him.

To be the legend he always desired to be.

His legend.

In the end, that's what it was all about.

And so he replied to Doris, “Alright. I won't take anything else.”

But he did.

Doctor Elvis Pepper was, in fact, scum.

But even scum can have ambition.

Even scum can be flavor chemists.

And so he set about his work of concocting that perfect mixture of 23 flavors he’d been working on.

He wasn’t sure if it was divinely bestowed to him or if he’d just become truly insane. But he’d become obsessed with the number 23 and its relationship to a beverage’s taste.

And thus he combined the 22 ingredients he was sure of.

Amaretto, Almond, Blackberry, Caramel, Carrot, Cherry, Clove, Cola, Ginger, Juniper, Lemon, Molasses, Nutmeg, Orange, Pepper, Plum, Prune, Raspberry, Root beer, Rum, Tomato, and Vanilla.

Then, he carefully poured his final ingredient.

Black licorice.

But just as he poured it, he heard a strange THUMP from the corner.

Doctor Pepper swiveled on his heels, and saw him.

“Johnny,” Doctor Pepper replied. “Oh my god. My boy. My precious boy. Oh, how I have missed you! God, how are you??? Come here, I want to see you.”

As if waiting for a command, a blonde-haired little seven year old in a silly park ranger costume stood nervously in front of Doctor Pepper.

“Hey Dad,” he said.

Elvis grabbed his boy and hugged him tightly. Then he looked him in the eyes and said, “If I've hit on this formula, I will come back home.”

“I miss you, Dad,” little Johnny said. “I miss you so much. I don't care about the formula. I just want you back, real bad Dad. Real, real bad. It hurts, Dad. Please come home. Please.”

“Taste this, son,” Elvis said, as if to gloss over pain.

Johnny wasn't the type to question his dad. In his eyes, his dad was the closest thing to God there was.

He was the type to do exactly what his dad said.

So Johnny took the beaker of carbonated liquid from his father and tasted it.

Then he looked at his father and said, “That’s incredible. Your best one!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Johnny said, sipping it again. “It’s delicious.”

It must be from COOLYMPUS then.

Excitedly, Doctor Pepper opened his notebook and snatched a pen into his hand. “Describe how it tastes for me…”

“…”

“…Johnny?”

“…Something is different.”

“What do you mean?”

“…”

“Johnny, answer me please—”

Doctor Pepper cut himself off as he looked up from his notebook and saw his boy.

“…JOHNNY?”

“Father,” a much deeper voice boomed. “What has happened to me?”

Doctor Pepper stammered. His seven year old son stood before him looking like a grown man. Much bigger, even, than Doctor Pepper.

“Oh my god,” Doctor Pepper said. “You have a mustache.”

Doctor Pepper began scribbling in his notebook.

“What does this mean, Father?”

“Well,” Doctor Pepper said. “It means I’m going to come home.”

“Really!?!” Johnny said excitedly.

“Yes,” Doctor Pepper said. “And I'm going to be a legend.”

Johnny hugged his dad tight, lifting him in the air. He kissed him on top of the head and said. “I will go tell mom. I love you dad.”

“Okay, I love you too son.”

Is it weird that Bathtoy said the same thing to his last altar boy?

And Johnny Pepper ran out of the basement apartment, with a joy you only see from children and dogs.

Elvis locked the door behind Johnny.

He couldn't come home.

Not yet. He needed… to run trials! He needed to perfect the formula. It made his son grow into a man overnight. That's probably not good.

“Oh yes,” his son had said. “It's delicious.”

No comment.

He simply couldn't go home.

Not after such an incredible breakthrough.

His family would just have to understand.

—

Forest

From

Trees

“For all the splendor of their monuments, the builders have vanished.” — Cait Stevenson, How to Slay a Dragon.

It began with just a rock.

Well, actually, it began with a lot more than just a rock.

It began with a re-education program.

“How to Train a Bandit.”

Ha.

Within 12 hours, Big John Pepper had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned an entire portion of his identity.

Gone was the park ranger outfit he'd worn since he was a boy, traded for an electric blue jump suit with neon white stripes.

Gone was the blonde hair. It had been dyed by Cancer Jiles himself.

“The black heart,” he'd heard Cancer mutter to himself, as if thinking of the potential of his creation.

For some reason it reminded him of black licorice.

There were videos that followed. Slide shows. Sessions on egg banditry, key terms like “carte blanche,” “over easy,” and “counter no show.”

And by the time it was all over?

He wasn't even answering to Big John Pepper.

Because he had become Big Ian Salt.

Upon completion of the program, Cancer Jiles had assigned him a task.

“Go out and find the salt that you need,” he said. “You're still way, way too happy.”

And so Big John did go out.

He did not understand the correlation between salt and happiness. But nevertheless, Big John set out towards the Himalayas.

He heard there was salt there, once.

Pink salt.

Which was not black licorice.

—

The

Salt

Mines

“Salt mines.” — BIP, first floor of purgatory

DING~!

Ding-Ding?

Ding-DONG?

Salt mines didn't feel like the right term to Big Ian, err… Big John. “Wonderous Caverns,” to him, felt more apt. Big, pink, salty caves, crystalline and translucent, that one could enter, and cut with tools. And that was what Big John had done.

With a hand drill, and a pick axe, he set about his work. With the drill he cut a weak line in the pink salt wall. And with the pick axe he chipped away until he had a perfect brick of salt.

And yet…

And yet it seemed lonely.

So he made another. And another. And another.

Soon, he had enough salt bricks to build an Empire Salt Building. A Great Wall of Salt. And the issue quickly became one of transport. How the fuck— err, heck, do you get this much salt from one place to another?

Also, how did he scratch the itch in the back of his mind, the itch that reminded him of a man he had once worshipped as a great dad, who was just a worthless abandoner of those who need him?

And how did he reconcile the fact that upon leaving the Dick Family, he had become just like his dad?

And so, Big Ian Salt or whatever the FUCK (HECK) people want to call him from here on, made an executive decision.

He'd ask for forgiveness instead of permission, if necessary.

He wasn't taking all the salt back to Cancer.

He was going to make something out of it.

And so, you see, it did begin with a rock.

A rock of Himalayan salt.

Crudely, he began chipping away once more at all his bricks, shaping them into objects he recognized, shaping them into familiar people, feelings, pains.

Within days, there were eight salt statues standing outside a Himalayan salt mine.

His dad.

His mom.

His brother.

His sister.

Toddrick.

Miguel.

Fred Dick.

Randi Dick.

All of them had frowns on their faces.

And why wouldn't they?

After all, at their core, they were all affected by the same thing.

Ambitions. Ambitions, which created monuments to abandonment and shame.

And they all had another thing in common.

The salt that was still uncarved.

Johnny Pepper.

Ian Salt.

He would leave that for someone else to chip away at.

Just as he had left everything else.

Just as his dad had done.

Upon sitting with his work for a while and reflecting on it, it began to feel as though the salt itself was seeping into his body. Through his skin. As though it were some highly corrosive substance that could burn straight through flesh and bone. And he recognized the shame he felt, but it no longer felt like a burden.

It felt like a fuel.

And he realized that he was exactly like his dad and that only made it more corrosive.

And that only fueled him further.

The only question he had was what exactly it fueled him towards.

These statues, whatever they meant, that was just the start of it.

The anger filling his torso with such intense, dramatic sensation could no longer be ignored for the sake of legend, his dad's or his own.

It had to be exorcised.

So he took a long look at that statue of Toddrick.

He felt his hand begin to tremble with such rage that it frightened the little boy in his heart and forced him into hiding.

He needed him to stay hidden.

The salt that burned through his body took his hand and wrapped it around the handle of the pick axe.

And with a violent swing, he drove it through the skull of his Toddrick statue.

Truly, now, his work had begun.

“FUCK YOU!!!” He screamed. The word never felt right leaving his tongue, even now. So he decided to scream it again as he drove the pick axe further into Toddrick's salt skull.

“FUCK YOU!!!”

Again.

“FUCK YOU!!!”

AGAIN!

“FUCK!!! YOU!!!”

One final piercing from the pick axe, and the Toddrick statue crumbled.

Dust.

He turned to Miguel and did precisely the same thing. Then his sister. Then his brother. Then Fred.

He was left with only three.

Randi Dick.

His mom.

His dad.

His eyes welled with tears. Normally, the feeling of emotional pain was one Big John treated aesthetically. It was a flavor of life to be appreciated.

But all that just started to sound like the flavor chemist he should've murdered with his bear hands a long time ago.

He dropped the pick axe.

He stepped towards his dad and muttered, “Fuck you.”

Then he placed his massive hands around the neck of the salt statues of his dad, and squeezed.

He squeezed it hard.

Until the salty veins in his biceps began to protrude through the skin.

Until his father crumbled to pieces in his clenched fists.

He looked at Randi.

He looked at his mother.

Innocent women.

Who deserved no harm.

For a moment, he thought it best to leave them. After all, what had they done besides be victimized?

But then…

Then he thought better of it.

He sobbed, “Fuck you.”

And crushed them into nothing.

Just as his dad had done to one so long ago.

Just as he had done to the other, not so long ago.

He fell to his knees, not from necessity but preparation. He truly thought that far more tears would come, that far more pain would follow.

But nothing came.

And nothing followed.

—

The

Salt

Mind

“So Jiles is an absolute, one of one, absolute, complete, one of one, absolute unbearable asshole. Good to know.” — Big Ian’s Pepperings, before his match against someone Cancer Jiles doesn’t know

I've never much liked hippies, Sage.

I think you're all kind of just… selfish losers.

Which I'm starting to realize is a real problem.

Not being selfish. That is a… necessity in this thing we do. The ability to choose oneself over all?

In this world, that's not a weakness.

That's a superpower.

Actually. Just being honest.

No, the real problem is being a loser.

What's the point, Sage?

What's the point in being selfish if you aren't going to fucking win?

That's like chaining yourself to a tree to save it, while the lumber industry eats the rest of the forest.

That's like smoking reefer with your buddies all day and complaining about the government but never getting a job or showing up to vote.

That's like waiting all day for your dad to come home when you could just go out and stab him in the head with a pick axe for hurting your mother.

And to me, that's all a hippy has ever been.

A selfish loser.

But who am I to judge, right?

Well, allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Big. Ian. Salt.

I have black hair.

I am taller than fuck.

And I have salt coursing through my veins.

I bet you know what that's like. You seem like the type of guy to get real Hemingway-esque about violence. Romanticizing it. Turning it into a whole genre. A whole way of life.

I can actually vibe with that.

But you know the difference, right?

The difference in the salt that courses through my veins and the salt that courses through yours?

Well. The salt that courses through my veins courses through a 6 foot, 10 inch tall, absolute tree of a man that can't wait to wrap his massive hands around your scrawny throat and strangle you.

The salt that courses through your veins courses through a wannabe Dalai Lama, a wish-I-was Gandhi. John Lennon but never Winnin’. Tyler Durden Lite.

Diet Doctor Pepper.

Let me venture a guess.

You went out and set about some great project you never truly understood until it became more complete.

A little community full of selfish losers just like you.

The Bodhisattva of Violence (ha?) playing house with a bunch of people who haven't trimmed their mustache since the Clinton administration out in the wilderness.

Boozing and carousing and puff puff passing.

But not winning, right? Not winning.

Fuck that, Sage. And fuck you.

Because I want to win.

I want to win more than anything.

You don't.

So let's not compare salts anymore, here.

You're gonna embarrass yourself.

Because yours ain't much like at mine at all.

I can't imagine losing in that ring and ever giving a single FUCK about some half-cooked stoner cult I started so I didn't feel like such a failure in my life.

You know the best way to not feel like a failure in your life?

Being successful in your life's work.

Just ask my dad.

Just ask my fearless leader.

The truth is, to guys like them? Guys like my father? Guys like Cancer Jiles?

If I stand in the way of their ambition, why—

They'd just as soon put a pick axe through my head than to let me do that.

And no, I may not like that simple fact.

But by gum.

No.

By FUCK.

I respect it.

So when exactly are you going to do it, Sage?

We all know you're just gonna burn that whole fucking monument to your failure out there to the ground at some point.

That's so you, isn't it?

To build something just to burn it down.

So when? I'd like to buy a ticket.

Or maybe just pour some gasoline on it to speed things along.

The salty truth is, I'd do the same thing. I'd burn it to the ground, too.

But you're going to burn it to the ground for any number of reasons but the right one.

Maybe because it ends up failing.

Or maybe because you simply get bored with it.

But whatever the reason, it won't be because it's standing in your way.

It won't be because if you don't, you won't get what you want.

Guys like you go your whole lives not even knowing what the fuck you want.

And then you die.

Lonely, and unfulfilled.

But guys like me? Guys like my dad? Guys like Cancer?

We know exactly what we want.

And then we get it.

And guys like us never die.

Because guys like us are called things that selfish losers like you only dream of being called.

“Legends.”

But then, as long as you get to be violent, you don't really care.

I can't even imagine how warped a mind must be.

Because it's so clear that the best reason to be violent is because you do really care.

The best reason to be violent is that legends are forged in violence.

But you… you forge nothing in violence.

You just delight in it.

Like only a selfish loser could.

—

The

Perfect

Answer

“I was a new born vampire, weeping at the beauty of the night.” — Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

When Mister Salt returned to the private jet and stepped on board, Cancer was on the phone.

“Tony–”

But then he saw his new, massive protege. He covered the speaker of the phone and said just one word.

“Well?”

Salt looked down at his tracksuit. Electric. He glanced up at Cancer, a coy, but dangerous smile on his face.

“Fuck you,” Salt replied.

Cancer smiled. Not big. Not wide. But it was a smile.

And what else could he do?

What could he even say?

It was the perfect answer.