Everybody lines up for fast food, looking like all they’ve ever eaten is The Deluxe Baconator three times a day with a side of large fries and a Coke-By-The-Gallon to wash it all down before laying into a double thick chocolate Frosty for dessert.
Six people have almost simultaneous heart attacks just from the exertion of placing their orders and two more, stricken with diarrhea almost immediately upon finishing their meals, are unable to waddle to the restrooms in time to avoid soiling themselves.
The paper placemats lining the plastic trays all bear a clearly contrived seal of approval—three silver stars on a blue ribbon—proudly proclaiming: We’re Redefining Quality / Redefining ‘Original’!!
Over at the corner table closest to the Drive-Thru, the manager’s interviewing half a dozen prospective bodies for the slop & mop crew and it’s more than likely he’ll hire them all he says, adding that there’s plenty of work to go around, both out here on the floor and behind the counter, where the really gross shit goes down.
“Not that the customers don’t keep us hopping, what with all the spills and puke and such,” he says, “or the mothers using our tables as baby-changing stations, or the winos wandering in after they finish their dumpster runs and losing control of their bladders, but you ain’t seen nothing til you seen the underside of the grill just after closing on Saturday, or the way a choclate shake turns to goo after it’s been spilled on the floor behind the Fry-O-Lator since a week ago Tuesday.”
He finishes writing and closes his journal but even in the face of all he has recorded, he remains reluctant to return to his office.