I stumbled into this particular establishment (Why the possessive name? Who the fuck is McDonald?) at three-o'clock in the morning on a Saturday - maybe it was a Friday; I can no longer tell which is which. The struggles, the triumphs of the previous night collected themselves in the purple bags underneath my eyes - and they all collectively screamed in hunger at the sight of the two golden phalluses passing by them as my entourage of miscreants drove drunk through downtown Missoula. Stumbling along through the seemingly never-washed, cum-stained glass door was my closest confidant, a two-hundred pound Cantonese dwarf whose name escapes me at the present time. We staggered slowly up to the unusually imposing counter for an establishment of this time. The burning lights scarred our pupils as we inched closer to the cashier. The person here to rob us of our dignity in exchange for a dollar or two was a mangled conglomeration of everything wrong with America - unshaved, unwashed, filled with an ontological void - truly dead in every area besides those that aid one in saying "May I take your order," and "Thank you." This particular horrifying example of the brutalization of the American dream was no tall glass of water - not much taller than my Oriental associate, and without any noticable marks differentiating *it* from whatever else was around it: no moles, no scars, no lipstick, no eyeliner. One would forget that they even had a mouth if it were not for the putrid stank of cigarettes and loneliness radiating out of it. With the full potential of this humanoid standing in front of us assessed, I began to attempt to formulate some kind of understandable phrase. I mumbled in a tongue not known to any living human a group of indecipherable syllables, probably relating to food of some kind, but again, probably not. I then sat for another couple of minutes, the monster staring at me, until I could regain my composure. "I WOULD LIKE TWO SANDWICHES!" I screamed unknowingly at the ghoul, then aggressively scrambling away from the counter. My associate and I sat down at a booth at the very rear of the restaurant, in order to not draw any more unwanted attention to two men obviously trying to hide a body in the '76 Pinto in which they had arrived. My confederate began rambling about this, that, and the other as soon as we sat down at our table, waiting for our order number to be called. "It's the fucking Persians, man!" he yelled passive-aggressively at me, throwing his filmy saliva in every direction like Jackson Pollock. "I tell you, it's the Persians, and it's the Azeris - it's the whole damned nation of Iran!" he continued yelling on a rant I could already infer had no logical end. However, this brief voyage into geopolitical savantistry was ended with another violent slam of the glass entrance to the eatery. Walking in, stomping in almost as if a military formation, was my ex-wife and her negroid husband. He was a despicable man, not above seven feet tall, not below six and a half. I couldn't tell of his national origin- be it Haitian, Jamaican, or some kind of other Maghrebi mistake-factory. It didn't worry me at this time, as the ethnicity of the man hunting me down for seven-hundred thousand dollars in alimony was the least of my worries in relation to him. At the site of the whore and her negro, I slid under the table like a snake through the crack of a door. I hid, panting like a dog, until I heard the droning "Thank you," of the cashier-robot, and the opening of the second glass door leading back out into the establishment's parking lot. With my safety reassured, I appeared back above the surface, still skeptical of my own survival. Worrying me more than this recent brush with death, however, was the disappearance of my associate - as well as the vehicle we had taken. The parking spot was empty.
Either way, the sandwiches were characteristically mediocre. read more