Things happen so fast inside that his vision blurs and the subliminal messages piped in through the overhead speakers become plainly discernible, urging the ectomorphs and behemoths below to eat, eat more, eat more quickly. The pimple running the Fry-O-Lator has all he can do to keep up, the fries still spitting and steaming as they’re lifted by the metalmesh bucketful onto the stainless driptray, the excess oil sluicing down into the catchbasin, waiting to be collected for later re-use. He can see all of this all too clearly, and turns away, looks out the window.
Outside, ravenous McSeagulls glide in ever-decreasing spirals, riding the thermals above the grill’s ventpipe, mesmerized by the scent of the carnage below, sharp-eyed and hopeful that a hapless glutton will stumble and spill its fries or even pluck and toss an unwanted pickle. Evolution has so sharpened their senses that they can discern the least able-bodied among any crowd amassed in the parking lot and zero in on on their every move, easily identifying the most likely mealsource.