A strange power has overcome me, and I fear my time is short before I succumb. With my waning strength, it is incumbent upon me to document my tale, so that it may serve as a warning. I now see clearly that this is the end of days. This ominous foresight torments me, as punishment for my communion with the unfathomable horror—the KFC Double Down Sandwich.
LA Times
I was not the first to fall under the Double Down’s spell, nor shall I be the last. The unholy sandwich is notable for its replacement of bun by Original Recipe chicken breasts. Betwixt poultry paddies lies melted cheese, bacon, and the mysteriously named “Colonel’s Sauce.” I hope that others are of stronger stock than I, because upon first discovery of this hedonistic creation, I was obsessed.
On Saturday, I found myself on a bicycle, peddling frantically toward a downtown KFC. I was under the Double Down’s spell. Salivating as I entered the eatery, I spotted that decadent mélange of barnyard beasts on the menu. My moment of gluttonous victory was at hand.
At this point, I was fully consumed by madness. When I demanded that the clerk bring me a Double Down, she seemed startled by my intensity. “We don’t have that today,” she croaked.
“What?” I roared, incredulous. It pains me to say that had I not conceived an alternative plan in that moment, I could have become violent.
Unfortunately, my alternative was even darker and more perverse than my original scheme. I resolved to create my own Double Down.
I am unable to recall a frighteningly large block of time. Evidently I regained composure in Hoya Court. I had just ordered a Subway sandwich for the sole purpose of extracting its bacon, and my backpack was heavy with Thousand Island dressing and pepper jack cheese.
I was filled with both excitement and terror as I approached the KFC counter. Somehow, those around me knew what I was doing. They knew of the horrible abomination I was out to create, and they trembled in fear. I trembled as well. Under the spell of the Double Down, however, I could not be dissuaded. Drunk on power at the precipice of culinary depravity, I did not feel like a mortal man—I felt as a god.
I paid for two Original Recipe chicken sandwiches and absconded to my apartment to begin the dark proceedings. I removed the chicken breasts, discarding the lettuce, tomatoes, and buns. Next, I extracted the bacon from my sub. Finally came the application of the cheese and Thousand Island dressing—a rough approximation of the “Colonel’s Sauce.”
I realized the severity of the situation as I placed my creation into the microwave. In designing this monstrosity, I had discarded both food and dignity in equal measure. What had I become? But any doubts were squashed by the sounding of the timer. I grabbed the sandwich—a hot, dripping mess—and drew it toward me. My mouth was wide in anticipation, no longer a human feature but a gaping maw poised to devour civilizations. I was gluttony incarnate.
I awoke on the floor, fearful and nauseated. Half of my creation remained on the table, uneaten and mocking. The beast was too salty, too greasy, and too vile to conquer. The craze that had compelled me to this point had mercifully passed, but the damage had been done. The sandwich was a part of me.
Suddenly, a horrible realization overcame me. This had only been a watered-down recreation of the Double Down. Surely, the power of the real thing must be devastating. As I sank back into the black warmth, one thought reverberated in my mind.
Oh god, oh god—what hath the Colonel wrought?
