🧃 The Bananas Brisket Boondoggle at Buc-ees

The Day Me And The Boys Saved Texas

A Totally True Story Featuring TJ, Bruno, and Spike

📍 Temple, Texas. Off I-35. High noon.

We were just making a routine stop. Me, Bruno, and Spike—three travelers, road-weary and craving snacks—pulled into the mother of all pit stops: a giant, gleaming, air-conditioned Texas highway convenience store. The kind with 120 gas pumps, 42 types of jerky, and a bathroom that makes you weep with joy.

I was halfway through a brisket sandwich the size of a pillow when I heard it:

SNARL.

Not a coyote. Not a meth-head. Something… wetter.

I turned, and there, gnawing on a college kid in a Dr Pepper shirt, was a man who looked like a mix between a trucker and a corpse. Blood down his chin. Barbecue sauce, too. Hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

A woman screamed, “It’s the brisket! It’s in the brisket!”

People dropped sandwiches. Screamed. Ran. One dude tried to pay for his hot dog on the way out.

The virus had been mixed into the chopped brisket.
Contaminated meat from an illegal facility out in Waco. One bite and you were infected. Two bites and you were trying to eat your aunt.

It spread by the usual zombie rules—bites, scratches, conservative media—but also through the deliciousness of slowly smoked beef.

The Stand at Snack Aisle Nine

I snapped a mop handle over my knee. Bruno, all muscle and discipline, took up position beside me like a four-legged Navy SEAL. Spike… well, Spike was busy licking nacho cheese off the floor.

We fought our way past half a dozen meatheads in Buc-ee’s merch who wanted to chew our faces. Bruno took one down with a headbutt. I swung like a man possessed. Spike knocked over a chip rack and barked at his own tail.

Thirty-six decapitations later—mop handle bent, shirt soaked in blood and sweet baby rays—I was ready to make my final stand by the soda machines. That’s when it happened.

Enter: The Taffy

Spike, not one for bravery or logic, wagged his tail just a little too hard.

He knocked over a display of banana salt water taffy.

One piece flew through the air like a golden bullet from a divine revolver—and landed in the open mouth of a charging zombie.

The zombie stopped. Twitched. Swallowed. Then blinked like he’d just come back from a long nap and said:

“Y’all sell vape pods?”

We stared.

Spike farted.

And just like that, we had our cure.

Banana Salvation

Turns out the artificial banana flavor neutralized the virus. Some freak reaction in the chemicals. It was a miracle—and an FDA violation. I made a note to inform RFK.

We ran through the store, hurling taffy like grenades, force-feeding zombies with banana justice. Some resisted. One lady screamed, “I hate that fake banana flavor!”
We decapitated her just to be safe.

Bruno dragged an entire taffy bucket through the aisle like a war hero. Spike sat in the Slurpee machine and refused to move.

By sundown, the virus was contained.

The parking lot was sticky, smoky, and covered in wrappers, but the store was saved.
So was Texas.

Epilogue

We didn’t get medals.

But they did name the mop closet after us.

"In Honor of Jason, Bruno & Spike — The Brisket Bodhisattvas"
They came for gas. They left us grateful

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