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 so