Toby chomped on his fresh, toasty McGriddle in the car on a rainy June morning, Beethoven's 5th playing softly on the radio. He had been camped outside City Hall since dark, waiting for the tip to pay off, but he might have dozed off by now if not for the slightly gooey, but forever delicious McGriddle to nibble on. It was almost hard to focus on his job with the taste of maple tumbling about between his cheeks. But he just had to have it. He would die for it.

But he would also die for a scoop.

A tip at the office of "The Daily Star" had led him to believe that the mayor would be meeting soon with infamous lobbyist Jack Eggsenoff to accept a bribe in exchange for "favors" and Toby Tomf, intrepid reporter, was going to catch them in the act.

Like clockwork, Eggsenoff rolled up in the parking lot in his black Rolls Royce. The sinister looking, pale man swept from the driver's seat wearing his even blacker trench coat and fedora, and a mysterious ebony box.

Toby choked down the last of his McGriddle in a manner more rushed than he would have prefered and chased after the lobbyist. He chased Eggsenoff into City Hall, pushing through the doors and corridors, always just far enough away to not be noticed by the shadowy lobbyist.

Finally, Toby found himself just outside the mayor's office. He turned on his tape recorder.

"Did you bring them?" squeaked the mayor's high-pitched voice.

"Of course I did," hissed Eggsenoff, followed by the sound of him opening the mysterious box. "Just remember, allow my associates to do whatever they want with the city park."

"Yes, yes! Of course Mr. Eggsenoff!" the mayor cackled greedily. "Anything you want! I've been waiting a long time for this!"

The time was now! Toby came around the corner and pointed an accusing finger at the mayor. "Aha! Caught you!"

The mayor, jaw hanging, looked like a child who had just had his pants pull down. Eggsenoff glared at Toby with hatred. On the floor was the ebony box, wide open and displaying what must have been at least 250 frozen McGriddles.

"Of course," Toby laughed. "Only McGriddles were delicious enough to get a man of the mayor's stature to sell out his entire political career. I should have seen it all along."

The crowd roared, but I just smirked, the moment Brandon Roy brought down his slam dunk. It was his second tomahawk dunk of the night, but this one was, unarguably, superior to the first: it brought the team to 101 points, and that meant everyone in the crowd won a free chalupa. I smirked because I didn't care about free chalupas. Plus I wasn't even in the crowd anyway. I was in bed at home, watching the game on my plasma TV.

I'd stockpiled a dozen McGriddles in the cooler next to my bed. This was definitely the right occasion to pull out one and munch down. Heck, any occasion is right for a McGriddle. Sometimes I walk out of my bathroom, spy my cooler, and am like, dang I'm totally gonna get down with a McGriddle right now. And I do, and it's great.

I think I'd start actually going to the games if they gave out free McGriddles after 100 points. But I was telling my main McGriddite Josh the other day that I doubt the stadium would give out McGriddles unless the game was a morning game. And there aren't really morning games in basketball. But there probably should be, if only for the opportunity for free McGriddle. But then Josh said, "I bet I'd probably go to games if they gave out free McSkillets." And I was like, damn it Josh, shut up.

But then he looked me straight in the eye, and said, "Don't even talk, because McGriddles are awesome breakfast food, and you're taking advantage of them by eating them all the time. You gotta keep it sacred. You gotta keep it real."

And I thought about it for a second, thinking maybe he was right. Maybe I'm devaluing them by eating them so much.

But then I looked down, like I often do, at my cooler, and I felt so happy inside. I can't help it: I love having a stockpile of McGriddles by my side, and I hope that feeling never fades.

The buzz of the alarm sounded like every morning. It was 8:00 AM on the dot, and the roosters were roaring. Amy awoke in a bit of fright, rushing to turn off the alarm, instead knocking it over.

Her hair was mess; it was in a frizzle, but all through her mind could she only think, "McGriddle!"

She cried out in hunger, and her stomach rumbled. She crawled out of bed, only to stumble.

"Argh!" Amy screamed in frustration. It was her bastard son and his train station.

She slipped on her favorite pair of bunny slippers, and let out a sigh. In only minutes she'd be in heaven, and this morning would fly by.

Arriving at the golden arches she frantically picked through her pockets, and threw down some change.

"$2.69," the cashier exclaimed.

But all she had was a buck twenty-five.

Mayor McCheese emerged from the ball pit, weary, but intact. Now standing in the world above, he knew he was close. It was then, as he emerged from the jaws of the plastic slide, that he saw it.

McGriddle: $2.69

"oh now i've done it, I'm late for work. =_=" the mayor lamented.

I’ve Got Time
A McBiscuit RPS

Awake. Look at my cell to find the time? No need. I wake up around this time every day. Light from the window on the right streams in. Why does the one on the left never let light in? Shame shades, same blinds.

Cough a little. The sounds of others getting up. Yeah, it must be around 6:40. She’ll call some time in the next twenty minutes. Or not. But she will. She’ll call and ask me to come in today. She’ll do it because, ugh.
( Read more... )

Genesis
Sun rises, world halts
As the McGriddles emerge
Time to eat breakfast

The World to Come
Burn the lunch eater
Post-apocalyptic cult
Worships McGriddles

Grant was furious as he stepped out of his black Cadillac El Dorado into the waning sunlight. The past week had been the most unsatisfying of his professional career. Man was said to be the greatest prey, the most thrilling animal to hunt. After years spent rising to the peak of his craft, Grant looked forward to the experience of tracking this quarry and closing in for a calculated end game. But all week long Mister Morgan Freaking Spurlock had been traipsing around the city, a dandy in a light sweater, smiling and greeting strangers who fawned and giggled over him. It made Grant sick. It was like Theodore Roosevelt looking out the White House window one day to find a lion tending the garden.
( Read more... )

What can I say of the McGriddle?
It's popularity is no riddle...
It beats out french toast,
the favorite of most,
And it shall never play second fiddle.

The night was dark and dreary,
But then the sun came up.
I went out for some breakfast,
And some coffee in a cup.

As I drove through empty streets,
A bright sign caught my eye.
A gigantic “M” stood all glowy,
And I knew I shan’t pass by.

I parked outside the building,
And giddily ran in.
A yummy smell was wafting,
But one I could not pin.

Was it eggs or bacon?
Or syrupy pancakes?
Turns out it was a brand new treat,
That only this shop makes.

I went and placed my order,
And stood aside to wait.
The nice lady behind the counter,
Prepared my tasty fate.

She handed me a wrapper,
Inside of which I found,
A McGriddle with bacon, egg, and cheese,
Delicious, warm, and round.

I received a great suggestion from a loyal reader of mcgriddlefanfic.  To make the community easier on the readers and easier to browse, I'm asking that everyone please start using LJ-cuts in their entries.  Everything beyond the first paragraph of your story (or the first 300 words) should be behind a LJ-cut.

I see you there, always. Even, no especially when you’re absent.

Absent, because it’s not just that you’re not there, no, it’s more. There’s a presence in the longing I feel.

Longing, fuck. I hate myself for putting it like that. I hate myself for how I smell- for how I walk. I bend back too much- poor posture. Not worthy of you.

Please. I can’t even get through a thought without saying something stupid about you and I, you and me. Whatever. All this fawning and staring and worrying and lists upon lists of useless crap. What’s it all amount to, when I think about you being there?

You glisten. You gleam. Your heat ebbs and flows, invisibly and fragrant in the air- I can smell you.

I hit my head on the door and scream. I curse and spit and sink down: weak, tired, lazy- incredibly stupid. Bottomless and nondescript- or at least unremarkable, in your singular, exact presence

It’s not even your taste- good though it is. No, I shouldn’t even describe how you taste. That’s obscene. This isn’t some cheap, stupid, ill-planned porno.

This is even writing. This is me. Weak, stupid me.

* * *

I woke up crying last night. Loud.

I look over at my water glass. My dusty, vile water glass. If I drink it, my throat will feel dirty and vile. I’ll never get back to sleep. If I get up to clean it out and refill it, I’ll be awake.

I stare at the ceiling, sleep-scent clinging to me like mildew. I think about how plaster smells, and smile. Smiling makes me think of you, and I frown.

I remember how I used to smell like you on hot summer mornings. Alone. Filthy. I look over see your wrapper on the floor? How? What?

But no, just a shirt. I shirt left unclean by me- like everything.

I want to, before I kill myself, rub you all over my face. Your grease. Your patty and crumbling, scented bread matter. I want to feel disgusting because you’re all over me, and I want to weep until I’m hopelessly, forever pathetic. I want that to be my, our bottom. Lowest before the end.

I turn over and want to vomit. Nothing comes. I can’t even force stomach convulsions. I barely try- wretch that I am.

I roll over and remember that I’m not thirsty.

Just hungry.

Peering into the window, Allison Dubois could see the young woman sitting down on the floor in front of her coffee table. In front of her was a takeout cup of coffee and some sort of sandwich in a wrapper. The woman, wearing some heather gray yoga pants and a Gap t-shirt, pulled her long red hair back into a loose bun, and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. She opened the wrapped sandwich to expose what looked like an Egg McMuffin, and took a sip of coffee. Allison continuted to look in, unsure of what was going on. The redhead picked up the sandwich, and Allison realized that it was no Egg McMuffin. The woman took a bite.

Allison gasped as the woman apparently tried to swallow. The sandwich fell from her hands and she reached for her throat, her eyes wide with panic. Allison stood paralyzed, watching. The woman's face began to turn blue and her mouth opened, working soundlessly, apparently trying to cough or speak or shout, but no sound came out...

...

Allison sat up like a shot. Her husband, Joe, grumbled something from underneath the covers.

"Whuh?" Allison asked him, distracted, her mind obviously far away.

"I said, 'What's wrong, honey, bad dream?'" Joe's voice was groggy and a bit grumpy. He was well accustomed to late night disturbances.

"Oh...yeah. Bad dream. It was nothing."

She knew she wouldn't be able to fall asleep after such a bad dream, she never could, so instead of tossing and turning and keeping Joe awake as well, she headed into the living room to think about what her dream could have meant. She had these types of dreams often, puzzling snippets of tragedy. She knew that it meant that someone was in danger and that she had to find a way to help them.

...

The sun had been shining for a couple of hours, and it was going to be a beautiful Sunday. Joe walked into the living room, still in his pajamas, watching Allison at the computer.

"Rough night?" he asked his wife.

Allison waved at him, almost dismissively.

"No, no...coffee is made, you should have some," she replied.

Joe peered over her shoulder.

"What's this?" he tried to read the text on the screen. "Alt...dot...breakfast sandwiches...? What is this?" He was confused.

"It's a newsgroup covering discussions about breakfast sandwiches," Allison explained. "I can't really explain...I had a dream last night and a girl was dying...she had been eating some sort of breakfast sandwich, but I just can't figure out what it was."

"Hmmm," said Joe. "That sounds puzzling. And yet, delicious. What's for breakfast, anyway? And where are the girls?"

"I let them sleep in," said Allison. "I was going to make pancakes for breakfast...but we're out of milk." She paused, still puzzling things out in her mind. "Maybe I should go pick up some breakfast and bring it home. I bet the girls would like that." She stood up and put her arms around Joe. "And then we can all stay in and snuggle up and watch cartoons. Doesn't that sound romantic?" She gave Joe a kiss and he smiled.

"Why do I get the feeling you are up to something?"

"Who, me?" Allison batted her eyelashes. "It'll be fine. I'll go get some breakfast now if you get the girls up."

TO BE CONTINUED.

-Prologue-

Paris McDonalds, Evening.


Night manager Pierre Bournaise groaned softly as he dragged his body along the cold tile that made up the kitchen area's floor. Blood trickled down his leg from where the bullet had entered his body. On the other side of the counter, his attacker gracefully stalked his prey, pausing briefly to acknowledge the items on the dollar menu.

"A bacon cheeseburger for just a dollar?" he thought to himself. "The Colonel would not approve of such blasphemy."

His anger at such an unholy act rose to a fevered pitch as he took aim with the pistol.

Another bullet tore through Bournaise as he moved closer to his destination.

The pale man with the eerie pink eyes jumped over the counter as Bournaise raised his arm and reached for the door handle to the walk in refrigerator in front of him. As the door opened, a third bullet slammed into his body, just below his left shoulder. The albino raced toward Bournaise, who now had most of his body inside the refrigerator. He raised his pistol and aimed for the old man's head, but the door was closed and locked before he could pull the trigger.

"He will die from his wounds," the albino thought, "and I have the information I came for." He reached inside the pocket of his black, scratchy pants and retrieved a cellphone. He proceeded to place one of the most important phone calls of his life.

Inside the refrigerator, Bournaise, knowing that his time on this earth was nearing its end, prepared to leave the most important message of his life.

"But do I have the energy to carry this out?" he asked himself, as he began to go in and out of consciousness.

Bournaise began to contort his body into a position that would make a circus performer blush with shame.

"The secret shall not die with me," he thought as he made the final adjustments to his bullet-riddled body.

Outside, in the cold darkness of the November night, the albino strode to the rented Audi, confident that he had done his master's work purely and that the information he received supported that which he had gotten from his previous victims that night.

He was unaware that his actions that night had set forth a secret chain of events that had been prepared centuries earlier.

Bacon how I Love
Your crispness with the salt, how
I wish forever


A haiku for the bacon on the Bacon, Egg, & Cheese McGriddle.

Bad Taste
By Bonnie Burton
---------------------------

"Dammit, this doesn't help at all!" Henry growled. He spit out the cheap whiskey shot and placed the dirty glass back on the bar with a loud thud.

"Sorry mate, it usually works for your lot, maybe you should give some tequila a go," the bartender smirked from behind the counter.

"Nah, forget it. I'm not much of a drinker anyway," Henry sighed. He never liked the taste of alcohol much before, so he wasn't too optimistic that this would do the trick. Spinning slowly on his bar stool, Henry looked to the back of the bar. Not many patrons at 1 am, but enough to keep him from feeling completely alone. Ever since he left the millitary, making friends didn't exactly come easily.

"Fancy a little company, love?" Henry didn't bother turning towards the cigarette-coo of the barfly who decided to sit next to him. He smelled her dank lilac perfume the minute he walked in. In fact, the dishelved woman smelled more like death than he did, and that was saying something.

"Sorry, not interested." He got up quickly and walked towards the Men's Room, but the odor from toilets that undoubtedly weren't scrubbed for a few decades, made him turn a sharp left towards the payphone. He walked up to the open wooden booth and closed the door behind him. He sat on the small seat and closed his eyes. The smell of the mahogany wood was calming and for once he could think without hearing the dull murmur of thoughts around him.

Henry fumbled in his pocket for a few coins and decided to pick up the phone and call the only person left he knew who could be of any help -- Morty. Around the 5th ring, a gruff voice answered the phone, then it seemed dropped it and picked it up again.

"What?! Who is this? Whatyawant?" Morty yelled.

"It's me, Henry. Hey, why are you asleep? Aren't you supposed to be out and about, lurking in the shadows and chasing after your prey or something?"

"I just got in a little while ago after a big snack. Didn't realize my dinner date was loaded up on Valium. Man that crap can knock you right out. So what do ya want?"

"Look I'm kinda new at this so I need your advice," Henry started. "I just drank and I can't get this awful taste out of my mouth."

"You're kidding, right?" Morty laughed hard. Henry was anything but amused.

"I'm serious. I hate this taste. I feel like I've been snacking on road kill and all I want to do is puke. Nothing is working, not margaritas, not mojitos, not cosmos, not straight up whiskey -- nothing!"

"Did ya try a Bloody Mary?" Morty snorted.

"Hardy har har, that's rich Morty, real rich. You gonna tell me what I should do or are you just gonna be a wiseass?" Henry growled.

"Here's some advice laddie, maybe you're not cut out for this sort of life. If you can't hack the taste of blood, you're gonna be one pathetic vampire. Maybe you better go find yourself one of those hunter kids and let them put you out of your misery. Or better yet you could always re-enlist. I'm sure Uncle Sam would love to see ya again." And with that last biting comment Morty hung up.

"Just great," Henry sighed. He didn't ask to be a vampire. He wasn't the gloom and doom type. Hell, his favorite band was Wham. But no, he had to go sign up for the army to pay off some college loans, and ended up in Special Services because he was too smart for combat and too psycho for a desk job. That'll teach him for volunteering for the classified drug experiment. In a way, he did ask to be a vampire. He just didn't realize that he'd be tasting blood in his mouth for the rest of his undead existence.

I guess it's better than being a zombie. Henry thought. Blood was one thing, but slurping up gray matter sounded a hell of a lot worse.

Henry hung up the phone and looked out the booth window towards the bar stools. Most of the patrons had left and it looked like it would be morning soon. Luckily for Henry, he wasn't one of the Ancients. He was a manufactured vampire who could withstand the sun as long as it was dusk, twilight or foggy. Thankfully, San Francisco never got much sun and ironically in his neighborhood of the Sunset district he could avoid it all together -- lurking in the constant thick fog.

He opened the telephone booth door and walked out. Throwing a few dollars at the bartender for his trouble, Henry grabbed his coat and headed outside. He wasn't sure what to do next considering that the vile taste in his mouth -- now mixed with cheap booze -- continued to linger on his tongue and twirl in his stomach. Drinking the blood of crank addict was a bad idea. The hot liquid that ran across his lips had the pungent properties of decaying flesh and fatty tissue.

How in the hell am I suppose to do this every night? Henry thought. He glanced down the alley in hopes of finding another victim before he called it a night. Most of the homeless he preyed upon were snug in their shelter or cockroach hotel of choice, leaving the streets fairly vacant. And he wasn't about to snack on another junkie.

Just as he was about to give up completely, a flash of purple and yellow flew by him, knocking him down onto the street curb. "Ouch! What the hell!?" Henry yelled.

As he looked up, he saw a man in his late '30s on a bike, dressed head to toe in neon racing gear complete with a blinking helmet. Oblivious to Henry, he was talking his cell phone headset and dangerously wobbling through traffic holding a large coffee and a messenger bag.

"He'll do just fine," Henry grumbled. If there's one way to make the top of a vampire's grocery list, it's by shoving him into the gutter while you chat on your cell phone.

The biker didn't know what hit him. Henry learned to move pretty quickly in the army, but once he became a manufactured weapon, he could beat half he Justice League on the track if he wanted to.

Henry knocked the biker down, tore off his headset, dragged him to an alley leaving his bike in the street and proceeded to drink -- all before the man could scream for help. His blood tasted like a mix of cheap coffee and Red Bull. Better than a junkie but not by much.

He finished quickly and dumped the man's crumpled body in the nearest dumpster. The taste of blood was still there, but Henry knew he'd just have to get used to it all. He was a vampire now and that meant drinking blood no matter how disgusting it tasted. As he turned to head back home, the biker's messenger bag caught his eye. Picking it up, he opened the top flap and a glorious smell wafted through the alley air. Maple syrup, sausage, eggs.... Henry hadn't smelled anything so tantalizing since he was a little boy growing up on his grandfather's ranch. He stood there breathing in the aroma of the breakfast, with a rare smile on his face.

He grabbed the sandwich that was carefully contained within a McDonald's wrapper --"McGriddle." Henry hurriedly unwrapped the sandwich and sniffed it awhile longer. Nothing made him happier than the smell of maple syrup. He hesitated before placing the sandwich in his mouth. Was a vampire allowed to eat real food or just blood? He couldn't remember. Partial sun was fine. Garlic didn't affect him. And their kind didn't give a squat about crosses. "Screw it, this sandwich is worth dying for!" Henry said to himself. And with that, he delighted his senses biting into the pancake-wrapped treat and for the first time since he'd become one of them, he didn't taste blood.

(continued)

Tyr finally stopped running after the other Nietzscheans, and leaned forward with his hands on his knees, panting. The cloaked Rev Bem appeared beside him.
“What is this all about?” he growled.
Tyr looked up and then jumped back, startled. Despite Rev Bem's kind and enlightened heart, no one ever got used to his exterior. He was a frightening-looking creature.
Try recovered himself, then set his jaw and said nothing.
“Double-crossed while double-crossing, eh?” Rev surmised. “Your spirit will never be free as long as you follow THAT path… and as long as you associate with those things.”
Tyr angrily raised himself to his full height. “Are you calling my brethren THINGS?” he demanded.
“No. Those things.” Rev pointed to several of the small, paper-wrapped packages clustered in a corner. They were emblazoned with numerous tiny double-arches.
Tyr inhaled sharply, catching the aroma, then placed his head in his hands.

Captain Dylan Hunt ran through the ship, stopping every few meters to pose intimidatingly. He ran down a gun-metal hallway, then stopped, and placed a hand on his gun. He ran further, then climbed up a ladder. Once on the next floor, he stood with his hands on his hips, and raised an eyebrow. Spying another small package, he whipped out his lazer gun and pointed it. When the package did not react, he tried the one-hand-on hip pose, with a sexy yet manly lip twitch. The package was similarly unimpressed. Perhaps he needed to fix his hair.

Trance Gemini, purple, be-tailed, and unassuming was sitting cross-legged in her quarters. She was staring straight ahead. One of her wallscreens flicked on, and the gigantic but neatly attractive head of Andromeda, the anthropomorphized version of the ship, filled the screen.
“Trance, what are you doing?”
Trance turned, smiling slightly. Andromeda could then see that Trance had been sitting across from one of those bewitching things, UNWRAPPED.
“Trance Gemini, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Trance turned to stare again at the object, her back to the wall. So, Andromeda flicked to another wallscreen to watch Gemini staring intently.
“Trance…”
“I’m communicating with it,” Trance suddenly said perkily. “I really think that we can work out some sort of truce. They must be kind and reasonable beings, like us.”
“I’m not entirely certain they’re beings at all! My sensors are reading egg – the early offspring of an Earth animal, cheese – the spoiled lactation of certain mammalian creatures, bacon – the flesh of another Earth animal, and two slabs of a soft and syrupy substance which I don’t recognize. There’s nothing to suggest that they’re even sentient.”
“I just know that they are,” Trance answered dreamily, staring deep into the bacon.

…to be continued…

I never got along with my older sister, Hotcakes. Everything seemed to come so easily to her, with her beautiful figure and outgoing personality. Hotcakes never had to try to get attention, it seemed like no matter where she went, people warmed to her immediately and wanted to be in her presence. I never had that kind of ease making new friends, and I was always so jealous. I was just me, awkward little McGriddle.

We had recently moved to a new town, and once again I was having trouble making friends. Hotcakes had immediately found a group of girls to hang around with, and found that local guys were intrigued by the new mystery girl. People seemed to notice me, but for some reason they were put off by my presence. My first day at the new high school, I tried to join a group of somewhat geeky-looking kids at a cafeteria table that had a few extra seats. You would think I had an extra head by the stares I got. I am not stupid, and took the hint. I found a tree outside where I could eat lunch alone. It really sucked though, I was desperate for some friendship.

Hotcakes and I were walking to school one morning when a pretty cute guy snuck up behind us and slipped in the gap between where we were walking. He grinned at both of us, and winked.

"Good morning, ladies!" his blue eyes shone in the morning sunlight. "Mind if I join you? I'm new to this town. The name is Josh."

"Not at all," Hotcakes murmured with her syrupy sweet voice. She grinned back at Josh, and I knew that she was plotting to get him to go on a date with her. "It can be really tough to be the new kid here. I'd be happy to show you around the campus so you don't get lost."

"Why, that's very kind of you," Josh's smile was as warm as sunshine. He turned to face me. "What about you? I'd feel very lucky to have two beautiful ladies show me around today."

I blushed. No guy had ever looked twice at me before, but Josh made me feel so comfortable.

When we got to school, Lisa immediately volunteered to show Josh around during her 5th period study hall. She knew that I couldn't join them then, because I had to go to math class. Josh asked me when I had a free period, and I answered 7th period lunch, so we made a "date" to meet up then as well.

When 7th period rolled around, I found Josh waiting for me outside of the cafeteria. He grinned. No one had ever looked so happy to see me before.

"I wasn't sure you'd remember!" Josh smiled. "I figured that you were really busy today."

I shrugged, "No, of course I wouldn't forget." I paused. "I was looking forward to seeing you again after this morning." Oh-my-gawd did I just say that?!

"McGriddle, I kind of wanted to ask you something," Josh suddenly looked serious and leaned towards me.

"What's that?" I was nervous. Was he going to ask me if Hotcakes was single? I figured that was where this conversation was heading.

"Well..." Josh suddenly looked nervous. "You just seem so different. So unique."

I felt my bacon blush.

"I love that you are both sweet and a little bit salty." What?! Was he really talking to me? "I'd just really love to get to know you a bit better. Can we maybe...go out sometime?"

I felt like I was going to pass out, or float away. Never in my wildest dreams would anyone ask me out, letalone a cute new boy like Josh.

"Oh my gosh..." I whispered. "Of course! I'd love to!"

Josh leaned a little closer, paused, and then kissed me.

At that moment, I realized that I no longer had to compare myself against my sister. Hotcakes may have her fans, but I finally knew, that being a little different, a little unique, was really ok. If someone like Josh could love my uniqueness, then so could I.

We stumbled into the McDonalds that Tuesday morning at 11:47 on the nose. Surprisingly, the place was virtually empty. In a town as small as Goldsmith, Texas, the liquor store parking lot and the lone McDonalds are the popular hang outs. We made our way to the front counter and squinted thru the UV lights at the overhead menu.
“Gotta’ put sumthin' in the ol’ gut, gotta’ git sumthin’ in there…” Jeb mumbled to no one in particular.
We were coming down, badly. Yesterday morning Jeb’s welfare check had arrived in the mail and after cashing it, we promptly scored some heroin. It turned out to be stronger than expected and we realized right away it’d be real bad afterwards. So, after the junk had peaked, we went out and used the remainder of his welfare money to buy some crack and cheap bourbon. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to be enough; we needed to get some food or we’d be sick for days.
After a few more moments of squinting, we came to a decision, five McGriddles between the two of us. Jeb reached for his wallet and froze
“We already done spent it all, man…”
He was right, that bottle of 10 High had ended up costing the last of Jeb’s welfare money, almost down to the dime. I rifled through my own pockets, but all I came up with was one of those old Susan B. Anthony coins. The cashier gave us a disgusted look.
“Well, you best find cho’ self some money in the next 12 minutes, cause the Breakfast menu bout to close an’ then you aint getting shit.”
“Not to worry,” came a voice from behind us. “I’ll gladly cover them.”
Jeb and I spun around to see a man standing in line after us. You could tell right away he wasn’t from Goldsmith; there was no torn jeans, soiled wife beater, or John Deer hat. No, he had a 3 piece suit and crooked smirk.
“Listen mister, you best not be foolin', cause I aint in the mood.”
The man’s smirk grew “No,” he said to Jeb “But, I’ll have to ask you for a favor, in return.”
Jeb licked his lips “Well, all right then…”
The three of us sat down together and right away Jeb tore into the McGriddles. As hungry as I was, I didn’t dare touch any of them. Jeb was the one who’d said he’d do whatever favor the stranger wanted, so all that food was his. I wasn’t about to get tangled up in whatever all this was for a little bit of fast food.
Jeb finished off his second burger and reached for number three when the stranger stopped him.
“Now then, it’s time for you to fulfill your end of our agreement” And with that the stranger placed a thermos and a large cup on the table. He unscrewed the thermos lid and slowly poured a creamy, orange liquid to the rim of the glass.
“Drink this,” he said, handing the glass to Jeb.
“What the hell is this?”
“Cornnog”
“Cornnog? What the hell kinda' shit you tryin' to pull. Ya can’t nog no corn!”
“So you say, but here we are.”
Jeb eyed the man suspiciously, then the glass. He quickly brought it to his lips and drank it all down. He paused as he set the empty glass on the table; his eyes seemed to bulge a little, with a distant look about them. With out saying a word, Jeb grabbed the third McGriddle and shoved it into his mouth. He reached for his fourth, but after only eating a small portion of it, his eyes rolled back into his head. He leaned forward slightly and then fell off his seat onto the floor. Jeb began to shake a little, when suddenly bile exploded from his mouth, covering his convulsing body and the tile floor.
I glanced up to see the stranger looking dead at me; that crooked smirk still on his face.
“So, corn nog?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Well now, it don’t look like Jeb’s gonna' be finishing’ up that last McGriddle there. And, I mean, if you don’t want it…”
“Please, by all means.”
“So,” I said in between mouthfuls “How exactly do you nog corn?”

It was a rainy April morning along the Pacific Coast Highway. 11:30AM, the esurient masses had forsaken the pleasures of the morning meal for prey of a more bovine nature. McGriddle was driving home in his '93 Arctic Blue Escort, the passenger seat soaked in a crusty mixture of Premium Blend coffee and mentholated ashes that didn't quite make their way to the appropriate receptacle, courtesy of the wind gusting through the bullet holes from last year's turf wars. He couldn't recall how or who or whatever, but he did remember that the funds he had secured to fix them went straight to the Fry Guys. He had an unhealthy penchant for the ponies back then. The kind of vice that could get a guy eaten alive. Then again, his business wasn't all that different.

Walking through the ragged door of his studio, he couldn't help but notice the ketchup stains on the shag.

*Thud*

He woke up to the sound of his assailant driving away in the Escort, a repo man's note hanging from the door handle. Did he forget to pay the bills again?

The Pacific has no memories, he reminded himself, as though to pass the blame into the sulking waves of a vast emptiness.

Picking himself off the carpet, he limped his way over to the computer he had won playing Monopoly in the '98 sweepstakes, the blue envelope flashing in the corner of the flickering display. At first he thought it was the usual spam for male enhancement or some other such charlatan nonsense. Given his recent history with his carnal side, he decided to open the message. Much to his chagrin, it was a note from his pal 'Burgler, over in the valley. He had just come across the most amazing thing. It seemed as though people from around the world had finally taken note of the subtle salty sweetness that can only come from a combination of semi sticky griddle cakes, rubbery eggs, and a fatty slice of heavenly pork and were expressing themselves in a venue normally left to prepubescent teenage girls spilling their guts over their latest crush or fashion faux pas.

There was only one thing for our protagonist to do. After a moment of sighs and contemplation, he brought his index finger to the bridge of his nose, and pushed back his horn-rimmed spectacles as he prepared to toss his hat into the escherian abyss below. He began to type.

It was a rainy April morning along the Pacific Coast Highway. 11:30AM, the esurient masses had forsaken the pleasures of the morning meal for prey of a more bovine nature. ...

The man of the hour was walking down the sidewalk under the late day sun. He had a spring in his step, a carefree glint in his eye, and a contented smile on his lips. The man had a handlebar mustache. The man had a price on his head.

Through his rose-colored vision the man witnessed what most would consider a startling event. A hot pink Cadillac El Dorado screeched around the corner ahead of him through oncoming, cotton-candy traffic and slammed over the bubble-gum curb not ten feet in front of him where it came to an abrupt, jerking halt. A raspberry haze began to boil out from the front grille.

Morgan Spurlock was unfazed. It was probably just another of his adoring fans making a cheerfully misguided attempt to meet him. He stopped and waited politely as if he were in line at the Toronto DMV. The driver's side door of the car opened and a large man wearing a coral-colored leather coat and fuchsia jeans emerged from the vehicle. The man also wore coal-black combat boots. Something was amiss.


STAY TUNED FOR THE THRILLING CONCLUSION