By Liz Vitale
Don was pissed.
He had just clocked out for lunch and was headed for the vending machines; he had left his lunch behind at home, on the counter (why did he pick up his phone to check it right before he left? Distractions, damned distractions) and in its place he had been savoring chocolate Zingers. Specifically, the pack of three was on his mind; the sugar high from that delectable little team of chocolate soldiers would keep him alert until closing: Come on, men! We gotta keep this maggot awake! He’s zoning out on the job! MOVE IT MOVE IT MOVE IT!
But there were no Zingers.
He vaguely remembered the old “Zinger Zapper” commercial from the 70s, featuring the Peanuts characters and Snoopy stealing the kids’ treats, in a masked-and-caped disguise. He was barely six or seven then, sitting on the olive shag carpet of his parent’s living room, too close to the furniture-sized television set, when he first saw it.
The Zinger Zapper got your cakes, Donnie.