Today, Paco puts two bees in a bucket and takes it to the stage, confronting the puffy little man who’s been watching him.
The Flexible Geography and Continuity of the Fledgling Cartoonist
There was a question posted in the comments of Monday’s strip asking about the location of Rocco’s Tacos in relation to the vast and venerable Q.
True, Rocco’s Tacos once existed next door to the Q-Burger. However, hard times befell that particular eatery. In fact, the bottom dropped out of the entire taco industry. The Red-breasted Hoonga-hanger, the creature from which the tasty taco shell is harvested, was hunted to near extinction by the South American bug fishermen in order to cash in on the American fast food craze.
As the scarcity of taco (Hoonga-hanger) shells caused the cost of the crescent-shaped comestible to skyrocket, pushing taco prices to $12 to $15 per taco, food chains like Rocco’s Tacos, Taco Hole, and Juan’s Hoonga-hut began to die out.
This proved a boon for American Burger Works, which swept in, filling in the gaps left by the dying taco joints along highways, in malls, and near funeral homes.
This is precisely what happened at the beginning of Q-Burger Season 1, with the opening of the American Burger Works franchise next door to everyone’s favorite restaurant.
Recently, however, a synthetic Hoonga-hanger shell has been developed by Lockheed-Martin and the Taste-ee Treet Waste Management Concern, based in Washington, D.C. This new development has cause a fast resurgence of restaurants that serve tacos and taco-related merchandise, such as Ronald McHoonga-hanger dolls, Take-and-Bake taco ovens, and various gastro-intestinal medicines.
Rocco, being a fairly resourceful business owner, has come out of dormancy and opened a new shop located a few miles down the road from it’s previous location. He hired Paco’s cousin as a manager, and the business started right up again as though no time had passed.
But what of the Red-breasted Hoonga-hanger?
That, my friends, is a story for another time. But if you’re ever in South America, and on a quiet, balmy night, as you stand with your machete in one hand and your malaria pills in the other, and you’re reeeeally quiet and not too strung out on coca…you just might hear the mournful call of the tasty, tasty Hoonga-hanger.
(Don’t ask, for I have no idea.)