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Foreword: It's probably best that you don't read this if you're eating or have just eaten - it's not the most pleasant of tales.
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‘Ashes burn my fingers
Dust stings my bleary eyes
Scars taunt my canvas skin
But you’ll never own my soul’
Mike had taken to poetry soon after starting the job, he found it the only way of expressing his embedded hatred without coming to work with a sawn-off shotgun and shooting red-shirted employees, or going awry with a meat cleaver in the kitchen and cutting up customers. “Table 6, Mike, two burgers, now” yelled a cocky waiter through the off-white service hatch. It was, in fact, the waiter’s job to collect the food at the service hatch and fetch it to the tables, but they never did. They went and sat on the roof and smoked whilst he did all the legwork, cooking the food, carting it about and making wry smiles at hungry customers.
“Filthy stupid stinking job” he mumbled and he spat on top of the hamburgers before squashing down the sesame seed buns and sticking them next to some soggy chips on a polythene plane. He carried the food on a brown plastic tray over to table eight and smiled pleasantly and he served the couple their food. “Enjoy” he said with false enthusiasm as he began dragging his feet back to the kitchen where he got paid slave labour wages for his nine hour shift. Three until midnight, every day but Sunday, he was officially the property of a grease coated fast food restaurant owned by some rich tycoon who would probably rather die than eat one of the half-meat, half-newspaper burgers they served.
When he started the job he was filled with motivation, he wanted to make it as a big time chef for a decent restaurant but somewhere along the line his hope died and he had spent the last 5 years as a slave to the corporate fast food industry who’s mediocre pay check owned him, and kept him flocking back for more of the same crap, every day. Spitting in the burgers was a way of expressing his hatred for the job and this worked well for the first two years. Knowing that people were biting into a big juicy tender burger covered with his greeny yellow phlegm and gulping the vile concoction down their throats was enough to bring a smile across his otherwise solemn face.
On days when he was feeling incredibly angry or his job was getting excessively tedious he would sneeze onto the burgers, lining them in a filmy layer of snot. He would smear the thick translucent liquid in with salad dressing so nobody could tell the difference, and whenever he had a cold he would cough on the bread buns to try and spread disease to anyone unfortunate enough to order from him. He had even squeezed the thick dripping puss from a spot onto cheeseburgers before; nobody knew any different. On the odd occasion he has rinsed a salad in urine, not water, and thrown up into a large pan full of vegetable soup. It didn’t matter to him, they enjoyed their cheap fatty meal and he got a degree of satisfaction.
But it wasn’t enough for him any more – he needed another revenge tactic to befoul the food he served. A way to release the pent up anger he felt inside in one crude act of culinary vandalism. “Mike, make me a cheese burger with extra mayo and fries for table 15, would you?” shouted a cocky young waiter though the serving hatch. Mike replied with a acknowledging grunt and slowly a smile spread across his usually sombre face. He snuck off to the grimy staff toilet to make some fresh ‘mayo’, a top shelf magazine tucked firmly under his arm.
He returned looking quite flushed after a few minutes, and clutching a tissue in a pincer-like fashion between his forefinger and thumb. A burger was sizzling on the grill and Mike quickly removed it with a spatula and deposited it onto a slightly stale bread bun. He held the tissue over the burger and squeezed it gently, oozing a milky liquid onto the burger top. He continued the soft squeezing motion until the tissue was empty and the burger was coated in a thick creamy sauce. He scattered some salad on top of the burger and pressed the sesame seed top down making a soft squelching noise, dropped a few fries onto the plate and placed the meal on a brown plastic tray. Feeling not entirely satisfied with his creation he coughed heartily onto the fries, checked the meal from a few different angles, and satisfied with his latest endeavour he set to work delivering the burger and fries to table 15.
With his eyes fixed nervously on the ground he approached the man seated at the table, noticing only the bald patch on his head surrounded by a cluster of greying hairs. “Enjoy your meal, won’t you sir?” murmured Mike rhetorically,
“Thank you son” said the old man in a thankful tone, “but there’s no need to call your own father ‘sir’ you silly boy!” Mike stopped dead and turned around to face the man who had raised him, his wrinkly old face smiling up at him. “What the hell are you doing here Dad?” Mike asked nervously.
“It occurred to me I’ve never visited you in your restaurant” he replied, picking up the juicy burger his son had set before him, “I wanted to see you in action” he added, biting deep into the fleshy burger, chewing on meat, salad and semen. “Mmmm, that’s a good burger!” he exclaimed, licking his lips, “What sauce is this you’re using?” “Erm..” began Mike.
“It reminds me of my days in the Navy” the old man said, licking his fingers. “Now what IS that taste?” he asked again?
“Semen!” blurted Mike.
“Why yes” his father said, “I was a sea man, I served for 8 years on HMS Beaufort – the best years of my life they were. So much male bonding; it changed me forever – it made me the man I am today!” His father wiped a string of semen from his lips and licked his finger pleasurably. “Well it was nice seeing you son, I’ll have to come again soon” Mike nodded glumly, “I’m going to meet up with some old Navy buddies now though, to catch up on old times. The old man ambled out of the restaurant, a warm grin on his face, and mike ran into the kitchen to vomit violently into the cold stainless steel sink.
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‘Ashes burn my fingers
Dust stings my bleary eyes
Scars taunt my canvas skin
But you’ll never own my soul’
Mike had taken to poetry soon after starting the job, he found it the only way of expressing his embedded hatred without coming to work with a sawn-off shotgun and shooting red-shirted employees, or going awry with a meat cleaver in the kitchen and cutting up customers. “Table 6, Mike, two burgers, now” yelled a cocky waiter through the off-white service hatch. It was, in fact, the waiter’s job to collect the food at the service hatch and fetch it to the tables, but they never did. They went and sat on the roof and smoked whilst he did all the legwork, cooking the food, carting it about and making wry smiles at hungry customers.
“Filthy stupid stinking job” he mumbled and he spat on top of the hamburgers before squashing down the sesame seed buns and sticking them next to some soggy chips on a polythene plane. He carried the food on a brown plastic tray over to table eight and smiled pleasantly and he served the couple their food. “Enjoy” he said with false enthusiasm as he began dragging his feet back to the kitchen where he got paid slave labour wages for his nine hour shift. Three until midnight, every day but Sunday, he was officially the property of a grease coated fast food restaurant owned by some rich tycoon who would probably rather die than eat one of the half-meat, half-newspaper burgers they served.
When he started the job he was filled with motivation, he wanted to make it as a big time chef for a decent restaurant but somewhere along the line his hope died and he had spent the last 5 years as a slave to the corporate fast food industry who’s mediocre pay check owned him, and kept him flocking back for more of the same crap, every day. Spitting in the burgers was a way of expressing his hatred for the job and this worked well for the first two years. Knowing that people were biting into a big juicy tender burger covered with his greeny yellow phlegm and gulping the vile concoction down their throats was enough to bring a smile across his otherwise solemn face.
On days when he was feeling incredibly angry or his job was getting excessively tedious he would sneeze onto the burgers, lining them in a filmy layer of snot. He would smear the thick translucent liquid in with salad dressing so nobody could tell the difference, and whenever he had a cold he would cough on the bread buns to try and spread disease to anyone unfortunate enough to order from him. He had even squeezed the thick dripping puss from a spot onto cheeseburgers before; nobody knew any different. On the odd occasion he has rinsed a salad in urine, not water, and thrown up into a large pan full of vegetable soup. It didn’t matter to him, they enjoyed their cheap fatty meal and he got a degree of satisfaction.
But it wasn’t enough for him any more – he needed another revenge tactic to befoul the food he served. A way to release the pent up anger he felt inside in one crude act of culinary vandalism. “Mike, make me a cheese burger with extra mayo and fries for table 15, would you?” shouted a cocky young waiter though the serving hatch. Mike replied with a acknowledging grunt and slowly a smile spread across his usually sombre face. He snuck off to the grimy staff toilet to make some fresh ‘mayo’, a top shelf magazine tucked firmly under his arm.
He returned looking quite flushed after a few minutes, and clutching a tissue in a pincer-like fashion between his forefinger and thumb. A burger was sizzling on the grill and Mike quickly removed it with a spatula and deposited it onto a slightly stale bread bun. He held the tissue over the burger and squeezed it gently, oozing a milky liquid onto the burger top. He continued the soft squeezing motion until the tissue was empty and the burger was coated in a thick creamy sauce. He scattered some salad on top of the burger and pressed the sesame seed top down making a soft squelching noise, dropped a few fries onto the plate and placed the meal on a brown plastic tray. Feeling not entirely satisfied with his creation he coughed heartily onto the fries, checked the meal from a few different angles, and satisfied with his latest endeavour he set to work delivering the burger and fries to table 15.
With his eyes fixed nervously on the ground he approached the man seated at the table, noticing only the bald patch on his head surrounded by a cluster of greying hairs. “Enjoy your meal, won’t you sir?” murmured Mike rhetorically,
“Thank you son” said the old man in a thankful tone, “but there’s no need to call your own father ‘sir’ you silly boy!” Mike stopped dead and turned around to face the man who had raised him, his wrinkly old face smiling up at him. “What the hell are you doing here Dad?” Mike asked nervously.
“It occurred to me I’ve never visited you in your restaurant” he replied, picking up the juicy burger his son had set before him, “I wanted to see you in action” he added, biting deep into the fleshy burger, chewing on meat, salad and semen. “Mmmm, that’s a good burger!” he exclaimed, licking his lips, “What sauce is this you’re using?” “Erm..” began Mike.
“It reminds me of my days in the Navy” the old man said, licking his fingers. “Now what IS that taste?” he asked again?
“Semen!” blurted Mike.
“Why yes” his father said, “I was a sea man, I served for 8 years on HMS Beaufort – the best years of my life they were. So much male bonding; it changed me forever – it made me the man I am today!” His father wiped a string of semen from his lips and licked his finger pleasurably. “Well it was nice seeing you son, I’ll have to come again soon” Mike nodded glumly, “I’m going to meet up with some old Navy buddies now though, to catch up on old times. The old man ambled out of the restaurant, a warm grin on his face, and mike ran into the kitchen to vomit violently into the cold stainless steel sink.
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Why don't you just write how you want to? I don't think it's really to do with the style or parts... just don't set yourself too many rules, because then it'll just seem even more forced than before.
But I wouldn't bother rewriting this.. the theme has been overdone quite a bit, everyone knows about spitting in burgers and any other alternative you can see... as has the 'that's not really BEEF you're eating...' thing.
If you want to be shocking, use your imagination, disturb people in a new light, not through clichés.
But I wouldn't bother rewriting this.. the theme has been overdone quite a bit, everyone knows about spitting in burgers and any other alternative you can see... as has the 'that's not really BEEF you're eating...' thing.
If you want to be shocking, use your imagination, disturb people in a new light, not through clichés.
Less with the gay stuff.
So, if I decided to re-write this, which I have every intention of doing, should I:
- Set it in a more modern McDonalds sort of place
- Make it less extreme and as such more beleivable
- Change the ending to a less gay alternative
The choice... is yours.
- Set it in a more modern McDonalds sort of place
- Make it less extreme and as such more beleivable
- Change the ending to a less gay alternative
The choice... is yours.
Cheers for the feedback - I actually had a burger from Burger King yesterday and felt pretty sick when a massive glob of mayo oozed out of the side of the burger. My own writing managed to disgust me - rah!
I would never do anything like that
Actually I just realised I worked in fast food. I was brilliant.
Actually I just realised I worked in fast food. I was brilliant.
It was good, but it felt strained at times - over exaggerated if you know what I mean.
Still good though.
Still good though.
How much for a burger like that?
I thought you had to pay for that kind of service ...
Nice :-D
I've not worked in a fast food restaurant so I wouldn't really understand how to portray the environment. The restaurant wasn't meant to be a McDonalds or something - it was meant to be more of a less popular/busy type of place, like a motorway rest stop restaurant.
The idea needs some tinkering.
Heh strafio :-D
The idea needs some tinkering.
Heh strafio :-D
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