a dream

Puddle had been daydreaming when an American missile slammed into his empty Wendy’s franchise. His franchise exploded and then rubble dropped onto Puddle’s body as he fell through the floor and into the basement of his franchise. He landed into a box containing hundreds of bags of dry-packaged Frosty mix. A staircase collapsed over him, both trapping him and saving him from the full weight of the falling remains of the franchise’s roof. Water sprayed into his enclave, rinsing the blood from his head, and caking debris to his face; the water also activated the patented frosty mix science—the cardboard soaked, the frosty mix expanded, and Puddle slowly lost consciennesses in a lake of Frosty Dessert. But I’ve worked so hard for this, goddamn it! Don’t they realize that my Baghdad Wendy’s Franchise...that I’m the only franchiser operative in any rogue nation, that I transcend that stupid fucking carrot-and-stick dichotomy with a tender golden rod, the perfectly prepared French fry?

The next thing he knew he was swimming across a river with a dagger in his mouth. A searchlight approached; Puddle went beneath the surface, and held onto the moldy arm of an equestrian-statute—some nineteenth century city founder or investor extraordinaire. He waited for nearly a minute. Puddle broke off the stature’s arm and then beat the submerged icon head with its own limb. Each blow created a low and dirty power chord.

He returned to swimming, watched for searchlights and judged by sound the distance of surveillance helicopters. He was half way across the river. Then he’d have to cross a small patch of land, and brave the moat surrounding Hamburger University. Then, kill, kill, kill. Easier than punching in cheat codes on his PS2. Puddle would kill them all and then when he found his princesses, little Wendy with her freckles and pigtails, doubtlessly tied spread-eagled for the sexual amusement of Hamburger University staff, he’d, well, rape her and then save her. Or since he was a good little American—he’d the keys to two shitty Midwestern towns to prove it—he’d save her and then rape her. Probably marry her—though he’d have to take care of Edna first.

A concussive shock wave drained the light and when he came to he was on a couch, a psychiatrist’s couch. Behind a mahogany desk sat the Colonel Harland Sanders, who sucked smoke from a cigar that was more than a cigar. Puddle thought of puppies, of his childhood on the puppy farm—cute little dome-headed curs, nearly feral and caked with dirt. Then the Colonel cleared his throat as another concussive wave drained the light.

Puddle beside himself. Fired from his job as McDonald’s mystery shopper. Now literally destitute. Too proud to get food stamps, to proud for contrition, to proud to accept that the army wouldn’t accept him as an officer. He walked from one grocery store to another, wolfing down free samples until each concern summoned security. Stole casseroles from family reunions; received beatings. Dug a hole in the ground and buried his earnings from canning, nursed a montage of dreams of vainglory, of vengeance—against McDonald’s managers, beautiful people, men healthy enough to carry M-16s and say, What What!

&#

Edna’s corpse in the truck and Wendy, beaming, in the front seat. They drive the hills of Hollywood and look for a cliff. It’s rainy and dark. They push the car off a cliff and walk away. A classic car pulls up, slows, and Humbery Bogart offers them a ride, a cigarette, and the opportunity for confession. Wendy climbs in front; Puddle takes the back seat. Wendy’s bosom heaves, and she starts battering her eyes. Puddle seethes and pulls a Dellinger from his coat as another concussive wave drains the light.

Edna and Puddle, naked in an abandoned puppy kennel, back on the puppy farm. It’s a red-letter day: He’d gotten her to wear her reddish hair in pigtails and they’d agreed that they’d hire actors to portray his parents until after the wedding. One day, one day very soon, her father and him, fishing.... he’d push the old man’s head into drink and they’d live happily even after—their children would run free in the parking lots of his Wendy’s franchises, they’d mock all things McDonald’s.

Ronald McDonald’s head rests in the guillotine. Tens of thousands cheer—the stadium is full of democratic partisans, of Wendy progressives, Viva la Value Menu! Puddle exalts, struts around the stage, shakes hands and kisses babies. Fireworks and the blade drops as another concussive wave drains the light.

&#

Ghost of Donald Rumsfeld picks Puddle up, licks the debris, blood, and Frosty Dairy Dessert from off of Puddle. Puddle’s groin stirs, despite his dislike of this neo-con creature. Between ohs and ahhs, the creature harangues about the wishy-washy nonsense that underscores the neo-liberal economic model, yum, hum!

a dialogue

"Wow! the view is incredible. The Earth looks so beautiful. This was a great idea. At first, I wasn’t enthused—the idea of a convention at the ISS, well, one wants to get away—too many flow charts, too many hamburger to hamburger food product ratios, too many, too much maximizing consumer visitation while minimizing the percentage of obese who dine in, too much.... well, damn, it’s just beautiful."

"Yes. So it is. It’s the damned planet. Look we’ve eighteen minutes, of which you’ve wasted five minutes gushing. You know I hinted that we’re alone on this Russian two-seater while the rest of the conventioneers are aboard a shuttle for a reason."

"It’s so incredible. See, it’s a matter of scale, of, celestial scale. Look there’s the Middle East. Now we know it’s the fifteenth Iraqi invasion holiday—and you can’t even see the smoke. It’s not a bird’s eye view, but like god’s eye view. Maybe, now I do regret that suicide attempt, not just cause what it did to my status at Ham U, but because it was stupid—"

"That’s a sealed incident, you flake. Let's talk brass—"

"The attempt isn’t so much sealed as it was contemptuous."

"We’re running out of time, jerk."

"O.K. O.K. What the hell is it? Look, there’s the—"

"It’s called Earth. Enough. Now, to business. We’ve got to reign in your mystery shoppers—all of them, past and present. They’ve seen too much, reflected too much in lonely hotel rooms, they’d enough cash for a bottle but not for a good time. They’ve written books, they’ve enriched other corporations. They’ve come to mock our rituals: they’ve expressed doubt in the doctrine of transubstantiation, the gristle into nuggets, the blood of Ronald into—"

"Are kidding me? I had to travel with you for this? That’s just undergrad theological nonsense for lesser kids who won’t make the cut at Ham U. You’ve been watching too much T.V. Now, look there’s our hemisphere."

a third element: epistles

Dear Edna,

So himself found out about the puppy farm and about my dubious parentage. And he thinks that Mystery Shopping is inappropriate, lowbrow. Well, the puppy farm is a disgrace, and what my folks lack in couth, in class, is only matched by your father’s archaic elitism. Your father, as you’ve said yourself, exists only to suffocate a formerly robust trust fund—remember our dreams of how many franchises we’d start with his trust fund if we successful kept the puppy farm and my status as a mystery shopper on the down low? Of course, I assume that you’ve disclosed my earnings. I also assume that my upper six-figure earnings via mystery shopping, the millions I’ve earned from books based on my true-life mystery shopping novels, the academic and the theological speaking fees haven’t changed his tune. Let him change his will: we’ll never fail via our own bootstraps; besides we’ll inherit thousands of puppies which we can somehow liquidate. Perhaps we’ll sell them as canned chicken meat in some UN administered frontage road ghetto.

Yours truly,

Puddle

Dear Edna,

Prison does suck: only ninety more days of my one-twenty. Though I miss you so very much and hate this place, beating that stoned, slovenly, and incompetent district manager to death will prove to be a great career adjustment. The new-new wave auteur, Reggie, the ‘Lil Peanut, wants to buy the rights to my life!

Your devoted,

Puddle

To Count Casserole,

I received your letter regarding my essay in the Chronicle of Higher Market Based Solutions, Swimsuit Issue. It would be my pleasure to answer your interesting questions. In a word, I don’t literally believe that Ray Croc was born of an immaculate conception; however, I do maintain that he, Ray Croc, was the product of an immaculate conception. While the distinction is obvious, it’s easily overlooked. Probably my fault, like most intellectuals I don’t always express myself as well as I ought to. Regarding your second question, Are you on drugs? Of course gout is the modern version of stigmata. Have you seen the Disney classic, Ronald McDonald Busts a Cap in the Senator’s Ass? Idiot.

Dr. Puddle

Dearest Edna,

One month to go: I’ve just got out of the hole because I accused—correctly—a prison guard of fabricating consumer responses for a prisoner market research survey and embellishing test product. Turns out, an up-and-coming marketing guru, Reverend Sanders, is bring the guard and the prison to the attention of the WTO.

See you soon,

Puddle

Prison Warder Wilson,

I formally request a change in accommodations. My cellmate will not do. He believes in Jesus Christ and anoints me in a fashion detrimental to my conception of myself, i.e., as a compulsive, devil-may-care, don’t-fuck-with-me heterosexual.

Inmate 254397

Dearest Edna,

When I get out, you no longer need to wear those pigtails. I know that has always creeped you out.

Your loving Puddle

Dear Agent Puddle,

The McDonalds Corporation has reviewed the case against you. Since district manager Gary Schultz, herein referred to as DM 204b, was a McDonald’s employee it was contractually wrong for you to murder him in your capacity as a mystery shopper. Doubtless you’re aware of the rates of violent attacks on McDonald’s management; ergo, we take a hard-line. However, your defense lawyer has successful argued that you didn’t so much murder DM 204b as a mystery shopper but as an outraged customer, and since the customer is always right, your actions, while harsh, were justified.

In short, the McDonalds Corporation finds you innocent of violating the Corporate Charter. However, we remain satisfied with the state-sponsored punishments issued against you; that is we will not purchase an appeal order.

It is important for you to understand that, while we welcome you back into the McDonald’s family after you’ve finished repaying your debt to society, you will be placed in stage six surveillance. As you know this requires self-criticism sessions, hypnosis, electronic monitoring, and all other measures recommended by your McDonald’s Case Worker.

Reverend McDewclaus

P.S. We know about your clandestine visits to Wendy’s franchises and your sexually psycho harangues on their serving counters. This will cease.

Dear Edna,

I thank you for burying my mother and father on their puppy farm, as per their wishes. Their suicides puzzle me. Do what you will with the puppies. Your father’s heart attack amuses, as of course it should. It’s amazing that his son violated his wishes so egregiously—accepting a Ronald McDonald poet laureate award. For once your insufferable father is right; there’s no room for such nonsense in today’s world. I’ll see you in several days.

Love

Puddle