“Yo babe, wanna go to McDonald’s?” asked Omelette. She sat on top of the refrigerator while taking selfies on her phone with some avocados as props.
“Sure,” I replied, half-asleep, “but is it even open right now? It’s, like, 2:67 a.m.”
“I think so. Anyways, let’s go, I’m hungry.”
I got up from the couch, and Omelette hopped down from the fridge like a potato pancake being dropped from a bonsai bush. She picked up her keys and her egg backup, grabbed my hand with moisturized fingers, and led us out the door. A congregation of bird poop appeared to have formed overnight on the roof of my car. When we climbed inside the dirty automobile, we both felt like bird poop for a short while, then I pulled out of the driveway. Omelette turned on some music, which was awful as always. This particular song sounded like a red-lipped batfish barfing while playing guitar. Omelette poked around under the seat and emerged with a wad of pencil shavings stuck together with glue. “Mmm, a midnight snack,” she said as she popped it in her mouth, crunching aggressively.
Twelve and a half minutes later, we arrived at McDonald’s. When we stepped inside, I realized that the place was eerily silent like a gas station filled with long-grain rice. Not a single machine was whirring, nor bell chiming, nor weary customer munching on some chocolate chips. Only one worker was present, who looked like she would rather be anywhere else in the world than at a McDonald’s at who knows when in the morning. Understandable. But even through her boredom and tiredness, her chestnut-colored eyes twinkled when she saw me. They had a certain charm that I couldn’t quite place. Holding hands, Omelette and I walked up to the register.
“Uh, I’d like a medium chicken nugget envelope, a chocolate milkshake, and seven very small fries, please.”
“And don’t forget the pickles!” Omelette added.
“Alright, that will be $34.93.” replied the worker as she spun a toothpick on her finger.
We shuffled up to the nearest table, which definitely hadn’t been cleaned since yesterday. A fine layer of salt coated the entire table and both chairs.
“It’s seasoning for your nuggets,” said the worker without looking up from her notebook.
I sat down, the salt crunching under my pants. Omelette decided that it would be best to clean up the salt before sitting down, so she licked it off like a capybara licking mayonnaise off a coconut.
“Hey, why are you licking the seasoning! That only decreases your time!” hissed the worker.
“What time?” questioned Omelette, her entire face covered with salt.
The worker didn’t reply. She silently went through the back door leading to the kitchen.
Omelette and I sat at our table for what seemed like five days, eighteen hours, forty-two minutes, and sixteen seconds. Strangely, we didn’t talk nonsense like we usually did. Something about the air in this place felt...off. Maybe it was the smell of rotten French fries, or the way the playground had suspicious red stains everywhere, or the fact that the worker returned with our food without warning. It seemed like she just...teleported over.
“Here’s your food,” she said, “have fun!” A shadow painted her smirking face so that I could hardly see her eyes. From what I could tell, they gleamed with mischief and loathing.
“Uh, okay, thanks!” I replied. The worker meandered over to the front counter and picked up her notebook again. “Have fun? What does that mean?” I mouthed to Omelette. She shrugged her shoulders and ravenously tore open the packet with the pickle in it. I unwrapped my milkshake and took an astronomical bite. As I attempted to chew the hunk of milkshake, Omelette let out a custard-curdling shriek. I looked over with a start. Her face was purplish, and the pickle she was eating lay abandoned on the ground. It smelled horrendous, as if I used a rotten pickled fish as the star on a Christmas tree. Omelette’s scream ended as soon as it began. Once she went silent, her limp body crumpled to the floor.
“Omelette! What happened? Can you hear me?” I wailed, hardly breathing.
“She can’t hear you. As a matter of fact, she’s dead.” stated the worker, who appeared to have snuck up behind me.
“What do you mean, she’s dead? This is literally a McDonald’s! What could have killed her?” My face flushed red with confusion, like an apple being filled with food coloring.
“McDonald’s? Well, you’re awfully wrong about that. This is not a McDonald’s, but a McDornald’s!” She stepped over to where the pickle lay forgotten and lightly kicked it.
“McDornald’s? What the hell is that?”
The worker grinned. She certainly was charming. Those eyes, I had seen them before...
“Nitrate!” I exclaimed after thinking for a moment. “You’re that creepy person who stares at me all the time!”
“That’s right! Now your annoying girlfriend is dead, just as I planned. You must be sad.”
“Eh, Omelette was kind of annoying, but the real problem I have here is that pickle. Holy shit, what was in that thing?”
“Oh, just some poison.”
“Hm, I’m charmed. As interesting as you are, you can’t just go around poisoning people.”
“Of course I can. This is my father’s empire, McDornald’s!”
“How did you get a building that looks like McDonald’s?”
“We just murdered all the employees and took over a real McDonald’s! It was easy! Besides, it was only yesterday, so the GPS hasn’t updated yet.”
“Wow. Still, I think I’m going to call the cops now.”
“NO!” she roared, “If you do that, I will END YOU!”
“Ouch,” I replied as I picked up my phone, “That sounds like fun.”
Nitrate McDornald leaped up onto the table and slapped the phone out of my hand. “Don’t you DARE!”
“Heh. I do dare.”
Nitrate looked down at the shattered phone. Her eyes widened as a green gas poured out of it, filling the whole room.
“What is this?” she bellowed.
“Well Nitrate, you’re not the only one who uses poison. I have poisonous gas in my phone saved for special occasions. If you drop it, a special compartment cracks open, releasing the gas. Oh, and by the way, I put superglue right where you’re standing. You’re not going anywhere. Okay, bye.” I said as I grabbed a gas mask out of my stomach.
I pulled the straps over my head and shot one last glance at Nitrate. Her eyes looked genuinely sad and longing, as if by killing her, I was depriving her of what she wished for most. Which, maybe I was. I still didn’t know why she murdered Omelette. Maybe last year Omelette ate the special rubber salad Nitrate was saving for lunch. Or maybe Omelette tried to steal a ketchup packet. Or maybe...she was jealous. That would explain why she always stared at me. Even though she was freaky and I most definitely didn’t approve of her murderous tactics, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She loved me, I could tell so much as that.
But I didn’t regret my actions. I strolled out of McDornald’s as if nothing had happened.
The clouds surrounding the moon reminded me of the shadow on Nitrate’s face. Then the moon itself was like the silver shoelaces on Omelette’s jeans. Omelette. I hadn’t cared about her enough. Why didn’t I regret her death? She was funny, faithful, loving...everything I could ever want. Sure, she was a little weird, but isn’t everyone a little weird?
Distraught, I unconsciously put my hand in my pocket and felt around. I noticed a funny feeling parcel. It turned out to be a ketchup packet. At my first sight of the tasty red sauce, I immediately perked up. I tore it open like a package of edible glitter and squeezed the contents into my mouth.
A peculiar feeling entered my spinal cord. My spinal fluid jiggled around, which felt horrendous. Suddenly, I remembered: I didn’t have a ketchup packet in my pocket at the restaurant. I would have instantly eaten it if I did. Someone planted a fake ketchup packet filled with more poison in my pocket. What is up with this damn poison? And who did it? Why would Omelette or Nitrate try to poison me?
I guess I would never now. The poison took effect while my thoughts were racing. It started with the spinal fluid, then spread to my whole body. I could hardly move without screaming, and my joints felt excruciating pain. I collapsed onto the ground and stirred no more.
Poisoned by McDornald’s. How fitting.