AgathaCheddarbane
Bane of Cheddar
Apocalypse at the Fly Trap
The world had to end sometime. You just wish it wasn’t during your shift.
Here's the idea: we're a bunch of fast food employees who were lucky enough to be working when Armageddon struck. Our experience in the vast jungle of society has allowed us to survive the apocalypse so far. But to survive any longer, we'll need each other. After all, there's nothing a band of greasy crew members can't do.
You try to get a look at the clock as you walk from the counter to the backroom. 6:54 pm. That means you’ll be free in six minutes. And it’s a good thing, too. You haven’t been able to restock the straws for fear of someone seeing the milkshake stain on your pants. Plus the bathrooms were getting to look…well, shitty.
As you haul two boxes of ketchup packets to the front, your manager announces that you have a customer. 6:56 pm.
You take their order. Two double cheeseburgers and a large fry. You ask if they’d like something to drink (so they’ll suffer a heart attack before they dehydrate). No, they wouldn't. 6:57 pm.
Everything is in the bag. On second thought, they’ll eat here. And they will have that drink.
Once they’re served, you do your best to restock the counter. Then Brittany, your manager, tells you to go home. You’re about to clock out when she changes her mind.
“Clean the bathrooms first.”
Clean the bathrooms first. It’s just past seven and you’re wiping down toilets and trying not to accidentally glance at that guy’s dingle dangle because he didn’t answer when you called for a bathroom check.
This is the life of every fast food crew member. Your story is very similar to this. You may not have been picking goop of unknown origin out of the men’s bathroom sink when it happened, but you were facing similar trials in your own restaurant. And you weren’t far. Everyone in this story has one thing in common: they were working in the same plaza, at a fast food joint. Giving extra chicken nuggets to customers who think you didn’t see them eat one and have you recount. Serving tacos to racist children. Cleaning Subway trash off of the tables in your Dairy Queen.
And you all were working when it happened. The apocalypse, Armageddon, end of the world, boom day. Not that you noticed at first. After all, you were already experiencing a personal hell. But as you suffered the indignity of wiping pubic hairs off of a urinal there was no mistaking it. Someone dropped a big ass chili pot.
No, that wasn’t it. This sound was rich and full, like a giant canon being fired. There was no clash, no metal. There was only a boom. It would be ignorant to say it shook the restaurant, because it shook the whole world.
Everything was downhill from there. Ash and fire everywhere, cars and buildings turning into ruins, and every person turning into a primal creature. You’d planned on going home that night, after your shift. But even when you threw down the sponge and ran out of the store with plans on driving to your house, you knew that there was no more home. No more love or plans for your future or stupid little sentimental things. Your car wouldn’t start. No one’s would. The lights around you slowly began to die out. In windows, streetlamps, and signs. Until finally the sign that hung above your workplace flickered into darkness.
As you haul two boxes of ketchup packets to the front, your manager announces that you have a customer. 6:56 pm.
You take their order. Two double cheeseburgers and a large fry. You ask if they’d like something to drink (so they’ll suffer a heart attack before they dehydrate). No, they wouldn't. 6:57 pm.
Everything is in the bag. On second thought, they’ll eat here. And they will have that drink.
Once they’re served, you do your best to restock the counter. Then Brittany, your manager, tells you to go home. You’re about to clock out when she changes her mind.
“Clean the bathrooms first.”
Clean the bathrooms first. It’s just past seven and you’re wiping down toilets and trying not to accidentally glance at that guy’s dingle dangle because he didn’t answer when you called for a bathroom check.
This is the life of every fast food crew member. Your story is very similar to this. You may not have been picking goop of unknown origin out of the men’s bathroom sink when it happened, but you were facing similar trials in your own restaurant. And you weren’t far. Everyone in this story has one thing in common: they were working in the same plaza, at a fast food joint. Giving extra chicken nuggets to customers who think you didn’t see them eat one and have you recount. Serving tacos to racist children. Cleaning Subway trash off of the tables in your Dairy Queen.
And you all were working when it happened. The apocalypse, Armageddon, end of the world, boom day. Not that you noticed at first. After all, you were already experiencing a personal hell. But as you suffered the indignity of wiping pubic hairs off of a urinal there was no mistaking it. Someone dropped a big ass chili pot.
No, that wasn’t it. This sound was rich and full, like a giant canon being fired. There was no clash, no metal. There was only a boom. It would be ignorant to say it shook the restaurant, because it shook the whole world.
Everything was downhill from there. Ash and fire everywhere, cars and buildings turning into ruins, and every person turning into a primal creature. You’d planned on going home that night, after your shift. But even when you threw down the sponge and ran out of the store with plans on driving to your house, you knew that there was no more home. No more love or plans for your future or stupid little sentimental things. Your car wouldn’t start. No one’s would. The lights around you slowly began to die out. In windows, streetlamps, and signs. Until finally the sign that hung above your workplace flickered into darkness.
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This is just a fun little thing.
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