They call me Pete McGriddle...
No, I ain't Irish. I don't claim to be nothing but true-blue American, if it's all the same to you, though I ain't what you'd call your average citizen. I don't vote, can't drive, and they ain't figured out a way to make me pay taxes. But, for all that, I appreciate this great nation of ours and what it stands for. I was born here, somewhere around three years ago, but I ain't no kid either. What I am, in fact, is a breakfast sandwich.
But let's start at the beginning:
Nobody's ever been able to explain to me how it happened--and you know what, I don't really care about that--but three years ago, I was just another McDonald's McGriddle sandwich, sweating under a heating lamp, waiting to be eaten. Then something changed, and my mind clicked on for the very first time as I came to life. That sounds hokey, but it's true: One second I was nothing, the next I was baking hot and aware of myself.
My first conscious thought was, "I can't breathe," seein' as how the paper they wrapped me in was waxy and not too porous. I couldn't get any air in there, and what air there was, was moist, hot, and not real breathable.
So I clawed my way out, a lot like a baby bird claws its way out of a shell. I found myself having arms and legs, something which I've never seen again on another sandwich, breakfast or otherwise. The way it's set up is: my legs are connected to my bottom pancake layer, the "bun" if you'll excuse the expression, while my arms grew out of the top. They're little, and not too strong, but they move me around pretty good, and they were enough, that day, to rip through the grease-soaked paper that was suffocating me. Good thing, too, or my short life would've ended right there, and somebody'd have been real surprised when they unwrapped their breakfast.
As it was, I pretty near scared the bejeezus outta everybody in the joint. After I made it out, my first order of business was to get out from under those damn lights. So I crawled on my hands and knees to the edge (I still got a scar from the hot metal on one of my palms), and just sort of flopped out onto the counter. I was breathing heavy, even though I don't have lungs, and saw spots, even though nobody's ever been able to find my eyes. I was in rough shape, and my day wasn't about to get any better.
One of the kids behind the counter screamed. It was a sound unlike any I had ever heard, which wasn't saying much since before that I had basically heard ripping wax paper and the sizzling of my own skin. But it shook me to the core, and I don't mean my core of delicious maple syrup, neither. I mean my soul.
Yeah, that's right. I got a soul. Call me weird, call me unnatural, but I'm just as much a person inside as the next guy. I may have eggs and bacon instead of a heart and skeleton, but that day, for whatever reason, I was born a thinking, feeling creature. Hell, I even knew how to talk as soon as I achieved consciousness. That's more than most people can say.
By this time, the place was going nuts. People were screaming, running around, trying to get out and away from me. I think I heard somebody say there were rats in the food, but I wasn't no rat, and I wasn't food anymore neither. I tried to tell everybody that it was all right, that I didn't mean any harm, but in all the hubbub I didn't have a chance. So I got out of there.
It wasn't any better on the street, though. People tended to shy away from me, not knowing what to think of this ambulatory sandwich walking down Fifth Avenue. A few guys tried to step on me, but I could usually spot the type well before they got near me and just get the hell outta the way. It was really a nightmare.
Those first few days, man. They were rough. I didn't think I was gonna make it. I thought about just ending it all, which is nuts, I know, but who doesn't entertain those kind of thoughts when times are low? I even went so far as to stand outside a homeless guy's cardboard box, not quite having the guts to tell him to just go ahead and eat me, you know? Maybe I could do some good by my sacrifice. But like I said, I didn't have any guts, literally or figuratively, so I just kept walking. And the way things turned out, I'm real glad I kept going.
You probably read about it in the newspapers. When I was finally able to get somebody to quit freakin' out long enough to listen to my story. After that, it was a whirlwind of talk shows, interviews, and parties. Yeah, of course, there was some scientific study, but when the white lab coats couldn't find jack-shit to explain what I was or how I was walking and talking (and believe me, they did enough poking and prodding to find out quite a bit--I still got some scars on my bun), they gave up and called me a "Supra-animate fast-food life organism" or some shit, and that was that.
I decided to call myself "Pete."
After the initial fervor died down, I did what most flash-in-the-pan celebrity does if they have half a brain (I don't have one of those, either, but you know what I mean): I took the money from the book deals and TV right, product endorsements (and didn't Mickey-Ds have a shit-fit about THAT one), and invested it, in order to follow up on my dreams, now that I'd been around enough to know what that might be.
So, about six months ago, I closed the deal on a little office on 8th, hired a secretary and an accountant, and opened "Pete McGriddle's Private Investigations". Sure, some crazies just show up because of the publicity, and the chance to see the "living sandwich", but not so much any more. You'd be amazed how quickly the public forgets. So now I do what any other private Eye does. I snoop around, take dirty pictures for divorce cases, and keep a few airplane sized bottles of bourbon in one drawer of my desk, and a specially made 2-inch long baretta pistol in another one. And life goes on, as boring and mundane for me as for anybody.
That is, until that hot July day when SHE came into my office, with a case that would be the biggest, and most dangerous, of my career.
So far.
TO BE CONTINUED...
But let's start at the beginning:
Nobody's ever been able to explain to me how it happened--and you know what, I don't really care about that--but three years ago, I was just another McDonald's McGriddle sandwich, sweating under a heating lamp, waiting to be eaten. Then something changed, and my mind clicked on for the very first time as I came to life. That sounds hokey, but it's true: One second I was nothing, the next I was baking hot and aware of myself.
My first conscious thought was, "I can't breathe," seein' as how the paper they wrapped me in was waxy and not too porous. I couldn't get any air in there, and what air there was, was moist, hot, and not real breathable.
So I clawed my way out, a lot like a baby bird claws its way out of a shell. I found myself having arms and legs, something which I've never seen again on another sandwich, breakfast or otherwise. The way it's set up is: my legs are connected to my bottom pancake layer, the "bun" if you'll excuse the expression, while my arms grew out of the top. They're little, and not too strong, but they move me around pretty good, and they were enough, that day, to rip through the grease-soaked paper that was suffocating me. Good thing, too, or my short life would've ended right there, and somebody'd have been real surprised when they unwrapped their breakfast.
As it was, I pretty near scared the bejeezus outta everybody in the joint. After I made it out, my first order of business was to get out from under those damn lights. So I crawled on my hands and knees to the edge (I still got a scar from the hot metal on one of my palms), and just sort of flopped out onto the counter. I was breathing heavy, even though I don't have lungs, and saw spots, even though nobody's ever been able to find my eyes. I was in rough shape, and my day wasn't about to get any better.
One of the kids behind the counter screamed. It was a sound unlike any I had ever heard, which wasn't saying much since before that I had basically heard ripping wax paper and the sizzling of my own skin. But it shook me to the core, and I don't mean my core of delicious maple syrup, neither. I mean my soul.
Yeah, that's right. I got a soul. Call me weird, call me unnatural, but I'm just as much a person inside as the next guy. I may have eggs and bacon instead of a heart and skeleton, but that day, for whatever reason, I was born a thinking, feeling creature. Hell, I even knew how to talk as soon as I achieved consciousness. That's more than most people can say.
By this time, the place was going nuts. People were screaming, running around, trying to get out and away from me. I think I heard somebody say there were rats in the food, but I wasn't no rat, and I wasn't food anymore neither. I tried to tell everybody that it was all right, that I didn't mean any harm, but in all the hubbub I didn't have a chance. So I got out of there.
It wasn't any better on the street, though. People tended to shy away from me, not knowing what to think of this ambulatory sandwich walking down Fifth Avenue. A few guys tried to step on me, but I could usually spot the type well before they got near me and just get the hell outta the way. It was really a nightmare.
Those first few days, man. They were rough. I didn't think I was gonna make it. I thought about just ending it all, which is nuts, I know, but who doesn't entertain those kind of thoughts when times are low? I even went so far as to stand outside a homeless guy's cardboard box, not quite having the guts to tell him to just go ahead and eat me, you know? Maybe I could do some good by my sacrifice. But like I said, I didn't have any guts, literally or figuratively, so I just kept walking. And the way things turned out, I'm real glad I kept going.
You probably read about it in the newspapers. When I was finally able to get somebody to quit freakin' out long enough to listen to my story. After that, it was a whirlwind of talk shows, interviews, and parties. Yeah, of course, there was some scientific study, but when the white lab coats couldn't find jack-shit to explain what I was or how I was walking and talking (and believe me, they did enough poking and prodding to find out quite a bit--I still got some scars on my bun), they gave up and called me a "Supra-animate fast-food life organism" or some shit, and that was that.
I decided to call myself "Pete."
After the initial fervor died down, I did what most flash-in-the-pan celebrity does if they have half a brain (I don't have one of those, either, but you know what I mean): I took the money from the book deals and TV right, product endorsements (and didn't Mickey-Ds have a shit-fit about THAT one), and invested it, in order to follow up on my dreams, now that I'd been around enough to know what that might be.
So, about six months ago, I closed the deal on a little office on 8th, hired a secretary and an accountant, and opened "Pete McGriddle's Private Investigations". Sure, some crazies just show up because of the publicity, and the chance to see the "living sandwich", but not so much any more. You'd be amazed how quickly the public forgets. So now I do what any other private Eye does. I snoop around, take dirty pictures for divorce cases, and keep a few airplane sized bottles of bourbon in one drawer of my desk, and a specially made 2-inch long baretta pistol in another one. And life goes on, as boring and mundane for me as for anybody.
That is, until that hot July day when SHE came into my office, with a case that would be the biggest, and most dangerous, of my career.
So far.
TO BE CONTINUED...