Fast-Food Sit Down
March 2, 2005 - Ronkonkoma, New York - 11:23 p.m.
Subject under surveillance Ronald “Mickey D” McDonald was observed in conference with Louie “The Burger” King. One of our junior undercover agents had succeeded in flipping “The Burger” two weeks earlier in exchange for significant reduction of a pending health code violation fine. The following is a transcript of the recording obtained via remote device carried on King’s body between 11:33 p.m. and 11:38 p.m.
R.M.: Louie!
L.K.: Hey, Mickey. Whazzup?
R.M.: I want my fuckin’ price back.
L.K.: Whaddya talkin’ about?
R.M.: My fuckin’ price. I want it back.
L.K.: Whatdafuckayoutalkinabout??
R.M.: Don’t play dumb wit’ me. Ya see dis? New York Times, fuckin’ New York Times! Ya gotta big color ad insert here, big fuckin’ insultin’ color ad sheet stickin’ in my fuckin’ face over my fuckin’ Corn Flakes this morning.
L.K.: Yeah, so?
R.M.: Ninety-nine cents, asshole! NINETY-NINE FUCKIN’ CENTS!
L.K.: Hey, Mickey, wit’ all due respect—I ain’t undercuttin’ ya, okay? Ninety-eight cents, O.K., ya got a legitimate beef wit’ me, but ninety-nine, fuck, I’m just doin’ what you’re doin’!
R.M.: Yer takin’ food outta my babies’ mouths, Louie! Yer killin’ me wit’ dis ninety-nine-cent shit. I demand to be made whole on dis, or dere’s gonna be a big freakin’ shitstorm blowin’ your way.
L.K.: So what do ya want I should do? Da price is on da street, Mickey, it’s outta my hands.
R.M.: Ya tell your guys it was a misprint. Dey ain’t gonna honor it.
L.K.: A fuckin’ misprint? Dat ain’t gonna fuckin’ wash, Mick! I’m gonna have Consumer Affairs breathin’ down my fuckin’ neck, fuckin’ every one of ‘em thinks he’s Ralph fuckin’ Nader!
R.M.: Dat ain’t my fuckin’ problem. Ya know who wins when you pull dis kinda shit? Who da fuck wins, Louie? The fuckin’ CUSTOMER wins! Ya gotta play by da rules, Louie.
L.K.: So say I put up with dis shit, an’ I go back to buck twenny-nine, like usual, what are you gonna do for me?
R.M.: I’ll keep my salads at t’ree forty-nine. Go ahead an’ push your fuckin’ salad bar, two ninety-nine this week, no beef from me.
L.K.: I dunno, Mick. Dat’s cream-puff shit, we don’t make no money on it.
R.M.: Look, Louie. Dat’s da deal. Or we go thirty-seven to one. Take it or leave it.
L.K.: Fuck you!
R.M.: Fuck you!
L.K.: Naw, fuck YOU!
R.M.: You’re too fuckin’ stubborn, Louie! Stubborn and fuckin’ stoopid, like dat fuckin’ Burger Chef, dat shitheel Roy Rogers from the old days. I can see dat our big purple friend here’s gonna have to soften dat thick fuckin’ skull o’ yours.
L.K.: Awwwww, shit… MAYDAY! MAYDAY!
R.M.: Mayday? What the f… aw, shit.
At this point, our team stepped in, apprehending McDonald, King, and Grimace, a minor thug with a long assault-and-battery rap sheet. Conspiracy charges are pending.