Chapter Text
I was in McDonalds when it happened. I’d ordered a Spicy McCrispy. Just as I was about to take a bite of the chemical-fed chicken, which was as dry and spicy as a jalapeno in Death Valley, the floor started to feel like it was melting.
The swirling colors of red, green, yellow, and orange were dashed by quick brushstrokes onto the floor, then a colorless void flooded my vision. But why a painting so beautiful? I thought, gazing at the eternal colors of the universe slowly morphing under my feet.
Oh, just because. And in a sudden moment of epiphytic clarity, I realized that this was not a punishment for evading taxes, but some kind of teleportation thing.
Everything vanished, and I couldn’t see anything except my Spicy McCrispy. For what felt like forever, the sandwich and I floated in the void. Then the nothingness gave way to weird mustard-yellow wallpaper with a striking resemblance to a jaundiced rhinoceros. My Spicy McCrispy spilled onto a hideous, mushy yellowish floor.
Crumbly chicken scattered over a waterlogged carpet. It felt like a punch to my soul. I’d waited for 45 entire seconds to get that Spicy McCrispy. I wailed in despair like an idiot, desperately scrambling to pick up the remnants of pickles. Five-second rule, I thought, stuffing shards of lettuce into my mouth. The weird orange swill that coated the chicken was already gone. It flooded a patch of carpet like oh forget it.
No. No. This couldn’t be happening!
As much as I yearned for my dismembered sandwich, I quickly noticed (it took me like 5 minutes) that something was wrong with this new location. The hallway had no doors or visible end. It was a dismal place, rendered a pallid yellow by the flickering fluorescent lights. Briefly, I heard a brisk clicking noise, then the soft scuttle of insectoid legs. All around me was a buzzing sound that vibrated in my bones, and I knew, deep in the recesses of my generally shallow soul, that my life was forever changed. Would I ever enjoy a Spicy McCrispy again?
I mourned the architectural perfection of the sandwich- the gooey pink chicken encased in a chrysalis of oily, breaded orangey stuff. I remembered the plasticky, sickly orange cheese dribbling down the ruffly lettuce. The meat had had a golden, oily aura, spicy tendrils of scent making my eyes water in devotion. Now it was merely a Frisbee-shaped flesh lump, grease glistening weakly. I couldn’t look.
However, I was able to understand that this place didn’t care about my fallen McCrispy. To this inscrutable hallway, I was merely another object to be brutally consumed. I was the Spicy McCrispy here, and I always had been.
I punched the wall, once, twice, letting the anger from deep inside my brain seep into my clenched fist. “Why? Why is this happening? My- my McCrispy!” I sobbed, collapsing on the ground, where I would be surrounded by the scattered pieces of my fallen comrade. “Ow. That hurts!” Crimson fingernail marks scored my hand, which throbbed like it was on fire.
I wanted to start soliloquizing, but then common sense kicked in. This place had killed my sandwich. It had taken my hard-earned 4 dollars and 79 cents (oh, how hard it was to protect those 4 dollars and 79 cents from the tax-taking money-stealing gub’ment!), then disemboweled the poor pseudo-hamburger all over its horrifically beige carpet. I was ready for vengeance. I would burn this hallway down if I had to. I’d graffiti it or vandalize it further. And I wouldn’t pay any fines! My somewhat rebellious high-school persona kicked in. (In my high-school years, I’d hung out with a group of similarly bloodthirsty, junk-food-loving vandals. I’d learned so much from them.)
I stood up, trying to make my hand move, then directed an apostrophic speech at the scattered remains of my Spicy McCrispy. “I will avenge you, Spicy. I will make this building wish it had never been constructed. Ooh, roasted! But anyway, I will find a way out of here. I will do it in your name.” The sandwich remained inert and silent, perhaps because it was dead. After shedding a tear or two, I stood up and started walking down the hallway. I would not let this place turn me into a Spicy McCrispy. I would fight back. I’d insult it really badly (eg, “your mother was a toilet stall.”)
After a few minutes, I realized that this was not going anywhere. The hallway kept going, almost like it was moving under my feet. Kind of like one of those things in airports. There were still no doors or windows. No sign of people, either. Or McCrispies. I gave up. I screamed for my lost ones. I WANT A REFUND YOU DUMB BUILDING. I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER.
I then was teleported to a farm. Everything smelled like wheat. I didn’t even know what wheat smelled like. I tasted the wheat cuz like yolo. It did not taste like a burger bun.
A determined look crept up on my face. I now know what my purpose in life is. I have to make my own, new improved Spicy McCrispy, First, a bun. I karate chopped a stalk of wheat. My punch was very powerful as i dropped out of karate school as a white belt. The stalks of wheat trembled. My very existence shook the world. My subliminal thoughts were so heavy and intelligent that birds flew around me. Birds! The Spicy McCrispy was made out of chicken which is a bird. These birds seemed to be eagles, but STILL. “Come down here you tasty birds!” I scramed cawing. They obliged. They were about 6 feet tall. I’m six feet too. With my high heels and abraham Lincoln merchandise of course.
I recovered from the previous two paragraphs. I was still an idiot, but not that much of an idiot, thanks to the helpful narration. The birds that I’d summoned a paragraph ago were staring me down. They were big and buff. Their muscular muscles rippled, looking like protein baguettes. They really were beefy avian muscle things, their slabs of strength resplendent. Their imposing musculature and feathery chests stared at me, drenched in a sheen of non-gross bird sweat. Their chiseled pectorals were the zenith of brawn. The flexing of their muscles was hypnotic. I stared in awe at their 17 packs, which seemed to be shrouded in glorious silvery light. I showed them my -15 pack. A beak suddenly charged at me. I then slapped it off cuz why not.
These were truly living gods, pure awesomeness made incarnate in the form of sinewy, feathery muscles. It inspired me to start working out. I resolved to never skip leg day. If I could achieve a fraction of the toned, powerful, STRONG muscles of these bird deities, that would be enough for me. Caw caw, i explained. A look of recognition flashed. in the bird’s muscular eyes, They must be working out their eyelids as well. I AM YOU LEADER They obliged immediately, which gave me a tidal wave of self-esteem.
If my therapist could see me now! I am not a scaredy cat anymore. If these gloriously muscular beings submitted to me, what else could I do?if hey werre awesomest i must be awsesomerest. And indeed, they were really awesome. They were the apex of buff brawn, the epitome of bodybuilders, every single pro wrestler alchemized into stunning creatures of feather and muscle. And speaking of feathers, their plumage was iridescent, alight with the flame of a million pillaged cities. These birds were primordial, the one constant in a shifting universe. They reminded me of the ancient gods Horus and Ra, but buffer. They also reminded me that my goal to create the perfect McCrispy was within my reach. But first its time to become supa buff!
I scanned the bucolic, wheat-encrusted landscape for anything I could use to enhance my admittedly flabby physique. The eagles observed me with detached stoicism. Truly, their presence was humbling. They reminded me that I had a long path to fly over, I mean walk, before I could achieve my new goal of achieving beefy nirvana. But I remembered my fallen comrade, the Spicy McCrispy. Perhaps I could combine my dreams, following the Buffist teachings of my new feathered servants/role models to uphold the memory of my meal.