Commission. Has basically nothing to do with The Loud House aside from The BurgerTac being based on a Loud House fan creator

New York Times bestselling author Steven Khing sat in the office of his editor on a bright early spring morning and lit a cigarette. A thin, pale, scrawny, pasty little man - the kind who couldn't fight, got PTSD from seeing a gun on television, voted Democrat, and designed to get offended on other peoples' behalf, whether they were offended or not - Khing wore horn rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. His pale face was sheened in sweat and his lank black hair was plastered to his pimply forehead. He held his Virginia Slim like a woman and oozed soy from every pore in his weak, ineffectual body.

His editor, Burt Stone, sat on the other side of a gleaming oaken desk, a bullish man with a bald pate and icy blue eyes. Behind him, a window looked out over Midtown, its narrow maze of streets packed with traffic. A hamburger and a taco sat before him in a styrofoam container, and a slice of soy, gluten free, non-GMO pizza lay half-eaten on a paper plate in front of Steve. "So," Burt said, "tell me about your next novel."

Steve brought the cigarette to his lips and took a dainty puff. That was the problem: He had no idea what his next novel would be about. He'd already written one about evil Republicans, one about evil Christians, one about evil white people, and one about evil capitalists. What else was there to write?

He had to come up with something, though; he was under contract with Tripleday for three more books, and if he didn't deliver, they'd drop him quicker than Elizabeth Warren dropped being white when she needed a leg up in academia. He looked around the room for some inspiration, but there was nothing. His eyes fell on Burt's lunch. Maybe -

It hit him.

"A BurgerTac," he blurted, "it's about a BurgerTac."

Burt's brow furrowed in confusion. "A what?"

"A BurgerTac," Steve said, as though Burt should know this.

"I-I have no idea what you're talking about," Burt said.

Steve leaned forward. "Okay, so get this. It's a giant sentient hamburger with a taco sticking out of its head like a tusk. It uses the taco to suck the privilege out of evil rich people."

Wow, this was great stuff! Steve's mind was brimming with ideas. He saw a group of rich snobs holed up at a house in the Hamptons, their fearful faces bathed in the flickering glow of candles because the power was out. They were scared, disheveled, and clutching random weapons - a candelabra here, a tennis racket there. The doors and windows were all boarded up and a siege atmosphere held sway. No one knew what was outside. Maybe nothing. Only void.

Then, a strange, wet shlicking noise found their ears. It sounded like -

"A huge slice of tomato rubbing slickly against a cold, congealed piece of cheese," Steve said. He was panting, in awe of his own genius. He licked his thin lips and brushed his greasy bangs out of his eyes. "It bursts through the door and eats those rich bastards one-by-one. Then his race takes over the world and cleanses it of humans. Pollution stops dead, my friend, and the earth, finally freed of the harmful little nits called man, is able to heal."

Burt looked at him like he was crazy, and Steve realized where he'd gone wrong. "Wait, when I say man I mean white man. The BurgerTac is a friend to all black and brown people. And to women. And gays. It's a very progressive creature."

For a moment, Burt just stared at him, then he sighed and sat back in his chair. "Jesus, Steve, you're not even trying anymore."

"Burt, trust me, this will sell 20 million copies. The people are starved for progressive media. Just look how well Ghostbusters 2016 and the Charlie's Angels remake did."

The editor favored him with a blank stare. "They bombed, Steve."

Steve held up one frail index finger. "Ah, but my novels haven't."

"That's because we edited most of the liberal stuff out."

Oh, right, Steve forgot about that.

"Look, Steve, I'm a leftie myself, so I agree with you, but most readers don't go for that. Once you've written fifty or so novels, then yeah, you've built up a die hard audience who will stand for you calling them names, spitting in their faces, and constantly depicting characters like them as cartoonish pieces of shit, but for right now, you gotta reign yourself in a little."

Steve pursed his lips.

Holding up a forestalling hand, Burt said, "But that's not the issue right now. The issue is this...Burger thing. Come on, Steve, you can do better than this."

"But...The BurgerTac…"

"It's a terrible idea."

"No it's not, it's real."

That slipped out and Steve regretted it.

"It's real?" Burt asked and lifted his brow incredulously.

All Steve could do was nod. "It is. I saw one."

Burt chuckled humorlessly. "You're not funny. Now -"

His words cut off when the door exploded open and slammed against the wall with a thunderous report. Steve let out a shocked, womanish scream and spun in his seat.

What he saw brought him to the brink of madness.

A six foot tall hamburger composed of two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun stood in the doorway. It waddled into the room like a nightmarish apparition, a spidery chatter rising from what passed for its mouth. Steve jumped to his feet and fell back against the desk. Burt screamed and toppled out of his chair. "What the fuck is that thing?"

Steve's eyes went to the taco jutting from the thing's head.

"No," he muttered, "n-no, I made it up, it's not real. IT'S NOT REAL!"

"Ooga booga," The BurgerTac said, "I eat rich people."

"B-But I'm not a rich person!"

"Ooga booga, your bank account, new car, mansion, and offshore account otherwise...hypocrite."

The BurgerTac slithered toward him, and Steven Khing screamed.

In the last seconds of his life, he realized that there were worse things than Christians, Republicans, and Capitalists.

There were teeth.