I was born in Mexico. My father was a goat farmer and my mother used to weave baskets so we could have at least two meals a day. We were very poor and my older siblings and I had the misfortune of being born in extreme weather. My oldest brother was born on the coldest day of winter, my elder sister in a spring deluge, and I in the thick of summer. Despite the fact that the 80s had brought advances in the standerd of living for the world's citizens, it seemed to have forgotten us in our tiny two-bedroom cabin.
When my father heard about the H1-B Visa program through my uncle, he eagerly signed up. Every spring, he would go to work as a laborer on a pepper and tobacco farm in Texas. The work was hard, but the pay was good and he was always home in time for Christmas, so he didn't complain. He was saving up money so we could emigrate to the United States, so he worked from 1988 until 1991, saving what he could. He made sure not a penny was wasted, and on the long winter bus ride from the farm to Mexico, he would sleep so the hunger pangs would not bother him.
He doesn't usually talk much about his days as a migrant worker, but he did tell us that one day, in the winter of 1989, he couldn't sleep. The bus had made a rest stop near a small taco stand. The tacos smelled wonderful and everyone on the bus formed a long line towards the taco stand, eager and salivating. The man behind the small dirty counter was very friendly, he said, but there was something a little 'off' about him. The man scooped out the steaming, spiced meat onto fresh, piping hot, flour tortillas like a machine, taking the money in one hand and serving up a big loaded plate with the other.
"Tacos de Venado," he cried. Apparently, he was selling venison (deer meat) tacos. "Comprense taquitos de venado. Son muy deliciosos!"
My father debated whether or not he should risk spending two dollars of his hard-earned money. Fortunately, my father is quite impatient and detests long lines, so he went back to the buss and quickly fell asleep.
The next winter, the bus again made a rest stop at the man's taco stand. Again, the passengers formed a long line along with other people. They had become addicted, they said. Every year, they waited impatiently to return to this small, dingy taco stand. My father, of course, stayed on the bus. He was used to the feeling of hunger; he lived with it throughout his childhood, so he would surely survive. Again, he slept, dreaming of a big bowl of my mother's chicken soup with a side of hot corn tortillas (which we could afford by then).
The next spring, he left again. It wasn't a very good year; the weather was horrible and the crop yield was so low that the farm had no choice but to let the workers go home a month early. My father said that the fellow workers were abuzz with excitement. They didn't have to eat their tacos in the cold this year. the men eagerly counted the number of miles, their excitement mounting as they drew closer to the rest stop. Three more miles... Two more miles... One more mile...until they finally reached the spot where the man had his taco stand.
But then, nothing. There was no sign of the stand or the man with his big steel pot of delicious, sweet deer meat. The only person there was an old woman selling papier-mâché frogs and piñatas. The workers demanded to know what had happened to the man with the deer tacos. Had he moved to another location? Did he open up a restaraunt? What happened?
The old woman raised her hand and the men fell silent.
"He was arrested two months ago. A lot of the local farmers and various other men started to go missing in his village and the police were completely dumbfounded. A small rumor was going around that the local butcher - the taco man, as you know him - could be involved. The police had no other leads and decided to follow up on that. What they saw shook them beyond beli-" She was cut off by a man asking, "And what about the deer tacos? When he gets out of jail, will he start making and selling them again?
The old woman chuckled.
"Oh, he won't be leaving his cell for a long time. You see, he wasn't very well liked in his village. Venado was a nickname that he used to refer to his enemies."
pretty good story, also the fact that those men were unwillingly and unknowingly turned into cannibals is something I find fascinating in a lot of these kind of stories
ReplyDeleteIs this some kind of morbid running theme?
ReplyDeleteIt's pretty good, but it's a little strange the old lady knew so much.
ReplyDeleteshe was probably there when they arrested him. or helped in the arrest. hell if i know
ReplyDeleteIts obvious her husband was a lunch of those men.
ReplyDeleteMan, Mexican food is bad enough! What kind of runs do you get when there's human meat in your tacos?!
ReplyDelete@anon above me: ehm, human meat is supposed to be very sweet, and tastes good. A bit like pork.....
ReplyDeleteActually, I think it was pretty crap. If you've read your fair share of pasta, it'd be pretty obvious that something was off about the tacos. I mean, the main character just happened to never eat them, and all of others became "addicted". I could almost tell right away that the meat was made of something abnormal, probably human flesh.
ReplyDeleteThis is basically a story, not a creepypasta cuz this, no offense, kinda sucked.
ReplyDeletenot a fan... I could tell almost the second I read the title, maybe I've just read too many pastas....
ReplyDelete"my mother used to weave baskets so we could have at least two meals a day."
ReplyDeleteHow many baskets did you eat every day?
This was great, but it wasnt that creepy.
ReplyDeleteI don't consider it as creepypasta, but it's still a good and original story.
Considering there is accounts of people making meals out of people and selling it, it can be counted as a creepypasta.
ReplyDeleteYou stupid pieces of shit.
There's an old story about a butcher who'd abduct people and make sausages out of them. I think it was in one of the Alvin Schwartz scary stories to tell in the dark books.
ReplyDelete