text: What do I order at Burger King? What are my favorite burgers or sandwiches there? Buddy, I just get whatever the commercials tell me to buy. I'm not sure anyone can really have a favorite or list of preferred burgers from Burger King because, like most everyone here, we're not eating Burger King because we want to or, god forbid, enjoy it. No, much like a kidnapped young adult from a very affluent family overhearing their stern father say that he doesn't care how many fingers the kidnappers send over, he'll never pay the ransom they want, and so the mind begins to crack and the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome form, so too goes the typical, and unfortunate, trip to Burger King. As you stand there in the rightfully deserted establishment, you gaze in wonder and honest regret at the medley of gastrointestinal horrors laid bare on the menu. Not a thing looks appetizing despite the grumbling in your stomach begging you to eat. The last few breath mints in your car did nothing to curb this feeling and you pass another lonely exit on that endless highway, you pray the sign shows anything else aside from the putrid Burger King, but alas, that's all there is and nary an exit for another hour or more. You've effectively been ensnared by the King's trap, lured in by the promise of food of which you'll only get a mockingly cruel approximation of. So there you stand, exhausted from hunger, but uneasy and unsure. The smell of grease that lingers in the air is like a miasma, a warning that this is no place to stay long, no place for mere mortals who value their humanity. You occupy an unholy place where all things good and pure are rotted and contorted into some sort of sick joke, a bizarre and evil version of something you so love back in the real world, food. You try to make sense of the menu, try to convince yourself that there must be something there that won't eviscerate your insides like a savage badger digging in a snake hollow for precious eggs. "Nuggets?" you think as your tongue knots up and struggles to swallow the dry heaving. They're not chicken nuggets, you know that by the price. You might as well eat the foam from your car seat for at least then you may clean some manner of flavor or beneficial gut bacteria from the countless farts you're laid into it over the years, unlike these so-called "Nuggets". Your stomach pings you again, not caring anymore. It has become the desperate teen on the receiving end of "My parents aren't home" text, and there's no amount of reason or manner of obstacle that will stand in the way. Reluctantly, you approach the empty counter. What employee man's this register? Where have they gone? The silence is deafening. No other customer dares enter now. They're not in the same state of desperation as you. You should take the absence as a warning, a message. They're telling you through the silence, that this is a place of desolation and loneliness. Staying here will only bring about the ruin of your soul. But, you indeed approach because you must. A burger. After all, this is the "Burger King" and you've had the misfortune of seeing these burgers slathered and dressed in every conceivable gimmick known to man. Each commercial made you question whether or not Burger King is some sort of high art satire, and parody of what fast food and American culture has become, but alas, no. That demon King is all too real. You break out in a cold sweat when you remember their campaign comparing their burgers to literally fake meat. Those "real people" couldn't even taste the difference... They couldn't distinguish the Burger King's meat from that grown in a lab as an affront to the natural order of the world. Then you realize that's because there isn't a difference. Burger King burgers are equally an abomination. "Hello?" You ask, your shaky voice echoing into the dim kitchen. "I'd like to place an order." You nearly retch at the words. The shuffling of ill-fitting shoes against a never cleaned floor murmurs lazily from the back. Slithering like a swollen slug, the creature makes its way towards the register, never breaking eye contact. The expressionless face pierces your soul with a mundane sort of horror that nearly drives you into an existential breakdown. Luckily, your growling stomach, howling for sustenance, keeps your ground in reality. This... thing, man, woman, or otherwise is the void. It is where all things cease to be. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t ask you what you want. It knows you cannot truly “want” anything from here, from it. It merely waits for you to speak and sew your own damnation. “One Whopper, please...” The words leave your mouth without you even realizing what you’ve just said. You feel possessed and violated because you swore to your own mother on her deathbed, and then again to her vengeful ghost some years later, that you would never allow yourself to order a Whopper from Burger King, and yet... You just have. The creature before you presses its spongy finger against some screen. The thing’s finger slips, unsurprisingly, because the screen is covered with a thick, yellowing film of grease, and its body is covered with an similarly off putting mucus membrane. It waits in silence as you fumble through your wallet for your credit card and then try to guess where to swipe it or if you need to give it to the thing or what. Eventually, you pay for the meal. You must linger at the counter as your food is prepared. You mind turns like worms in a bait pail imagining what that wretch is doing back there with you food. A bright light blinds you momentarily as a car pulls into the parking lot. Another guest would be welcome. Misery loves company after all. It’s too good to be true though, as the passenger must have reckoned their mistake, and turned around. Those red tail lights slowly fading back into the unnaturally dark abyss surrounding this accursed place. In just a few moments, your burger is ready. The speed of delivery is concerning. That was far too quick to have any degree of accuracy or structural integrity with ingredients, despite you placing now irregular or custom elements. There it is on the tray, hastily and lazily wrapped and so unceremoniously off center. The foul beast that crafted this malformed lump slinks back into whatever dark corner of the kitchen it came from, leaving you, again, in the soul crushing emptiness of that horrid restaurant. You pick up your tray, a flimsy affair and sleepwalk your way to an empty seat, or in other words, any of the seats. After testing three or four tables, each more wobbly than the last, you accept your fate and squeeze into a disease ridden booth. You don’t know why you’re compelled to do so, but you use a napkin to sweep the stale crumbs off the surface and set your tray over the crusted ketchup smear. Tentatively, you begin to unwrap the lukewarm package. It was just cooked, was it not? How is this burger already unappetizingly tepid? Once again, your stomach compels you to continue with another angry growl. With a deep sigh, you acquiesce your urges. Upon grabbing the sandwich, the first thing you notice is the false heft. There’s something wrong with the density and balance of this burger. Were you a dog, you would bark at the doppelganger in disguise to warn others of this danger, but what’s the use? You know full well the sickening future that awaits you. Throwing caution to the wind in a vague hope of getting it over with quickly, you chomp into what the King has called a burger. You recoil in disgust. The texture of the stale bun clashes with the sopping wetness of the mayo and lettuce. The only silver lining to the experience is that the flavorless meat patty is lost in the mixture. Sloshing through the chewing, your throat constricts defensively. Not so keen to eat now, are you stomach? After some effort, you force down a swallow. War. The conflict is immediate and lasting. The King tries to seize control of your innards, and against all logic, you fuel his forces with a few more bites before the sobbing starts. Your trembling hands can no longer cooperate with such destruction. The gurgling war cries in your guts drowns out any outside stimuli. You are in the void now. The dull infinite is all around you, a pocket dimension of pain and misery is centralized in your stomach. Is this how the old ones felt at the birth of the universe? Pounding the table, you will yourself back the world you once knew, the world where you can get up from this damned booth and back to your car. The dark oblivion of that lonely highway would be welcome company now. Sadly, the King’s forces have made their way to your lower intestines already, leaving utter ruin in their wake. It would be an understatement to say that you are no longer hungry. A frothing and bubbling begins to form in your bowels, as the pressure builds uncomfortably. It’s just a matter of time now and in between the stabbing and twisting in your intestines by the trained assassins of that Whopper, you resign to your fate. It shall be a long night in the King’s privy. As best as you can manage, you scoot out of your tiny booth while trying to maintain the delicate hold your anus has of the savage horde. You lurch along the floor on unsteady legs, you can barely feel them through the tingling and fluttering pain. Waves of heat ripple across your cold body. Your clothes cling inconveniently to your body because of the flop sweat making each step excruciatingly tense, a battle against force trying to restrict your movement. The bathroom is the goal in much the same way the choppy waves are for a bridge suicide jumper. Opening the door to this bathroom is akin to opening the door to a secret torture chamber in darkest of dungeons. There was suffering here. There shall be suffering here again. Unclean would be expected, but this squalid, rancid affair is like an abandoned concentration camp where the shaken, broken victims of an attempted genocide wander aimlessly in the mud and ruin. You’re out of place in such a miserable environment, yet your whole night has led to this moment. In your heart of hearts, you knew this was your destiny as soon as you pulled into the parking lot. The hot, humid miasma of unflushed dumps and piss make you want to gag, but you must stay in control if you want to ever wear these pants again. In one of the only positive things to come out of your ill-fated trip is that you do not remember the bathroom experience in full. Only in horrid flashbacks at night, the repressed memories come back to you. The PTSD is manageable with the right medication and therapy. You’re still haunted by it all, but thankfully, you may yet recover and rejoin society at large. At least, that’s how my typical Burger King trip goes down.