Recently, after reading some of the delightful ramblings of one of my most cherished and aristocratic female colleagues, my eyes became unfocused as I remembered a specific group of people who consistently made me want to tie them to trees, set fire to them, and then tickle them as they burn so that they die confused about how to feel... yet without them I wouldn't be the intrepid supervillain I am today. Their pure, unparalleled evil was at once the bane of my existence and an inspiration.
The people I speak of are fast food restaurant employees.
As a schizophrenic, I can always safely ignore the internal personality which is on a diet as it is always in the minority - so I frequent such eateries so I may bask in the fatty deliciousness. I can't be arsed to park my car, walk inside, and order my horrible food, so I'd rather pull my vehicle up beside an ancient walkie-talkie inside a wooden box, fail to communicate with the people inside via said walkie-talkie, and be handed the entirely wrong thing at a window where I feel enormous pressure to drive away fast due to the milling throng of other hungry, enraged people behind me.
What always happens is this - I always order what is possibly the simplest thing on the menu, yet its always the polar opposite of what I'm handed. It doesn't matter what nationality or primary language the person on the other end of the cursed walkie-talkie happens to be; twisted as I am, I'm no racist. It could be a MENSA-level genius with the fabled Gift of Tongues, and I'd still be handed a bucket labeled 'OLD LADY JUICE W/ PULP' at the pick-up window rather than the iced tea I requested. Once, when I got to the pick-up window to receive the french fries I'd asked for, I was handed a toboggan. It wasn't even deep-fried. Another time I was handed a cup of hot chocolate that was full of ice cubes, and when I complained about this, was told to just scoop them out. I'd ordered a vanilla milkshake.
You never think to check your bag to see if it's the right food while at the window... you didn't want to upset the starving mob gathering behind you. It's always once you get to your destination, or when you're at least more than halfway to it, that you find out you've been screwed. So, what does one do? One turns around and goes back to the restaurant and marches inside, to seek restitution or revenge, time depending - or if there is no time, you suffer with what you were given or starve. That toboggan tasted like shit.
This time, after informing the clientele that I would like them to leave by savagely twisting one of their heads off, I was astonished, thrilled, and finally lost in admiration at what I saw.
There were so many possibilities here for me! A true smorgasbord for a connoisseur of pain and suffering! I slaughtered the employees one by one, using every colorful and creative method I could find, until I ran out of them! I deep-fried one's head. I crushed a face in the hamburger clam-grill. I diced someone in the tomato slicer! I was grateful it had that big warning label on it claiming it was dangerous, else I may have passed it over. I hosed someone down with soda and pushed them into the freezer. I forcibly held someone so their mouth was on the ice dispenser, and dispensed ice until they stopped twitching. I made one eat a salad. Oh, the glorious wanton murder! I was having so much fun, I nearly missed out on the beauty of the business.
Years later, I am The Catastrophe Syndrome, and I am the proud owner of a nationwide chain of fast food eateries, known as Misanthropic Meals. Shamelessly ripping off the business models of similar chains while flagrantly flaunting my evil intent, I now passively cause widespread misery and suffering amongst humans through my lovely restaurants, which are drive-through only, and open 24 hours.
I use the poorest, cheapest materials for my uh... "food", which when mixed with enough lard and salt, taste great. My employees have the lowest pay and motivation, making them as apathetic and hostile towards my customers as possible... and I make ridiculous amounts of money due to the addictive nature of food that is horrible for you... the customers always come back. I've become rich through making people angry, miserable, and obese. I hug my knees and rock back and forth giggling happily every time I think about it.
My pick-up window clerks have a wide variety of random objects/foodstuffs around them, and are instructed to randomly replace items in peoples orders on every 3rd order - my kitchen employees are instructed to ignore all special requests, especially if it's for something important to the customer, like preventing an allergic reaction. My soda machines will either lack a syrup cartridge or lack a C02 tank, depending on the day of the week. The walkie-talkies in the drive-through were made in 1972, and are operated by people who filled out their applications in Sanskrit. Best of all, being drive-through only, there are no doors for customers to enter the building with; employees have key-card entry. A special device removes their souls as they arrive for their shift, and returns it as they leave with amplified remorse, because you are so much better rested when you cry yourself to sleep at night. Also, there are no dumpsters outside our building, yet nobody asks why.
We have the best french fries in town, though.
This venture was the principal funding of my malevolent career, and one I'm proudest of. There have been many more since, but this one will always have a spot in my heart, because cholesterol has caused a weakened spot of muscle upon my left ventricle from strain caused by pushing blood through arteries which now go 'clang' at night. I'll steal a newer, better heart from someone when the chest pain stops making me nostalgic.
Comments
The Catastrophe Syndrome, you are truly an inspiration. We could all learn a thing or two about widespread misery and despair from your nefarious operation, and I salute you for it!
Posted by: Overlord K | June 10, 2009 5:55 PM