Nacho Noir: The Case of the Missing Chip

The party was loud. Music thumping. People laughing. Jalapeños flying like no one was watching. But I was. And I noticed something no one else did.

One chip was missing.

Not just any chip. A center piece. Fully loaded. Prime location—dead center of the tray, perfectly positioned between sour cream and salsa, with a streak of smoky cheddar that curled like a question mark. And now? Gone. No crumbs. No smudge. Just a cheese void where justice should be.

I scanned the room.

Culprits everywhere. The guy in the vintage windbreaker claiming he’s “gluten-free” but keeps circling the food table. The girl double-dipping like it’s a human right. Someone brought carrot sticks—for what, moral support?

My eyes locked on the host. Casual. Too casual. Said the tray was “fresh out of the oven.” Yeah? Then why’s there one spot cooler than the rest? And don’t think I didn’t see that fleck of salsa on his sleeve. Rookie move.

The dip was still pristine. No trail. No chip fragments. It was a clean job. Professional. Which meant one thing: I wasn’t dealing with hunger—I was dealing with arrogance.

The kind of arrogance that thinks they can take the king chip at a party and walk away unnoticed.

But I noticed. I always do.