Trapped with “Flying Satan Guy” at Taco Bell
Hands down one of the strangest true experiences of my life
About an hour ago, I thought I was going to be murdered in a Taco Bell bathroom.
The entire encounter struck me as so completely insane that I almost question if it even really happened. Spoiler: It definitely happened. Unfortunately.
When you think about it, any encounter in a guy’s bathroom is odd. I hear girls sometimes get pretty friendly in the restroom but, as a rule, guys do not. Unless they’re drunk.
Drunk guys are some of the friendliest f*ckers on the planet.
I’ve had some creepy encounters in my life, but this one ranks near the top of the list. Of all the times and places, it happened on a Tuesday morning in Jeffersonville, Indiana.
At Taco Bell.
Who the hell is behind me?
There I am, standing at the urinal minding my own damn business when I felt more than spotted someone behind me.
My body immediately tensed because the guy was invading my personal space. But then again, it was a cramped bathroom, one apparently built for tiny doll-sized humans.
Not adult-sized men as advertised on the door.
Using my peripheral vision, what I noticed first was the guy’s hair. He had long, scraggly brown hair that sagged to just below his shoulders.
You know, like Jesus.
At least the Jesus that you see in almost every picture or painting. As you probably guessed, the guy behind me in the Taco Bell restroom was not Jesus.
He was, however, standing in front of the bathroom sink talking to himself.
What the f*ck is that guy doing?
He wasn’t so much talking to himself as making strangely erotic noises while vigorously washing his hands.
His antics did little for my sense of comfort and safety. As the staccato burst of his moans continued, I prepared for a random attack out of nowhere. Which is what I assumed crazy people do.
I’m still not finished urinating, so I’m overwhelmed with vulnerability.
Also, I have no idea what’s about to happen. All I know is this strange dude with “Jesus hair” and schizophrenia is violating the water faucet.
The water faucet that’s uncomfortably close to my back.
In my mind, I’m playing battlefield chess on the ceiling, trying to work out every counter to every possible move — like some kind of Taco Bell purgatory version of The Queen’s Gambit.
That’s when he does move.
He doesn’t attack me, though. Without warning and without turning off the full-blast faucet, he dashes across the bathroom to the dryer.
And then things get even weirder.
OMG, I’m about to be murdered
As the guy screeches to a halt next to the dryer, he begins violently swinging his open palms upward against the bottom of the machine.
An upside-down game of Whack-a-mole.
I freeze at the urinal because I’m thinking, OMG, I’m about to be murdered.
I have no reference point for this amount of crazy. At that moment, the ceiling could have parted and the man might have ascended through the gap like a modern-day Messiah.
And I wouldn’t have batted an eye.
Instead, as he continues to assault the dryer, he starts mumbling incoherently.
The only thing that I can make out of his gibberish over the thundering hiss of the dryer is a phrase that sends a shiver down my already frozen spine.
He keeps repeating, “I’m flying like Satan, I’m flying like Satan.”
What the actual f*ck?!
I’m still standing there with my back to him, watching from the corner of my eye.
I don’t face him. As any child staring down scary shadows in their bedroom knows, as soon as you acknowledge the monster, it will f*cking eat you alive.
So I watch and wait from my stunted vantage point at the urinal.
My heart ricochets in my chest. My imagination is loose and roiling. I half expect “Written by Stephen King" to scroll past me as the introductory credits to a movie directed by Tarantino and M. Night Shyamalan.
Behind me: slap-slap-slap-slap-slap.
“I’m flying like Satan, I’m flying like Satan.”
I zip myself up, take a deep breath, and start to turn towards him. After all, if the monster is going to devour me anyway, I might as well go out with some self-respect.
Does he even have a face?
Halfway through my turn, Flying Satan Guy makes another move.
He dashes toward the door, his face angled away from me. All I see is the scraggly brown hair that covers the back of his head.
He reaches the door as I come to a full rotation. Still not facing me, he shoulders through the exit.
Then he’s gone.
The door swings, the dryer wheezes hoarsely into silence, the sink still gushes. For a moment, I just stand there watching and listening.
What the hell just happened?
I release a pent-up breath I didn’t know I was holding.
After washing my hands, I turn off the faucet and look at myself in the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, framed by the cramped Taco Bell bathroom.
Did the guy even have a face?
Deciding that I do not want to know, I dry my hands with the same dryer he used. There’s only one of everything in this restroom.
Hands now dry, it’s my turn to shoulder through the door. I glance one last time at myself in the mirror, then step out into the wider Taco Bell lobby.
There he is — the back of him anyway, across the lobby, swaying to the music as he stuffs a Burrito Supreme into his mouth. Except I can’t see his face.
Maybe on the other side of that hair is just an opening rimmed with razor-sharp teeth.
I don’t wait to find out. The devil is dancing, so it’s time for me to leave.
And that’s exactly what I do.
Final thoughts
It’s hours after this incident now, and I still don’t know what to make of it. My best guess is that the guy was crazy high. He possibly had a mental disorder.
Maybe both.
I never did see his face so I have no idea of his actual appearance. I probably don’t want to know.
I also have no idea what “I’m flying like Satan” means, either.
All Google offered me were the lyrics to “I Like the Devil” (with no reference to the specific phrase) and articles about the infamous fly that landed on Mike Pence’s head.
Something tells me that the guy in the Taco Bell restroom wasn’t referring to a political debate.
What do I make of all of this? I honestly don’t know yet. It’s still too fresh. Too surreal.
Right now it’s just this crazy thing that happened to me, and I wanted to share it with you.
Sadly, this story was not written by Stephen King or directed by Tarantino. It was, however, written by me, Christopher Kokoski. Here’s my story.
