Step after step, I'm walking toward a slow death. My friend Isaac and I are on our way to a fast food burger joint, and it doesn't matter which one because they're all basically the same. We're only undertaking this expedition because Isaac knows a guy who he thinks will give us free food.
It's a sunny Sunday afternoon, and the sun is sitting on my shoulder. The two of us are sweating profusely. We're human slugs leaving a trail of perspiration in place of mucus, and we're seeking out salt instead of avoiding it. The food we may or may not receive is very likely 50% sodium and will cause our eyes to dry out and turn to dust.
I'm ridiculously stoned. We both are. It's the only reason I'd drag my feet through these doors to willingly gorge myself on this God-forsaken semi-edible food. I don't know when or how often they change the grease at a 24-hour fast food restaurant, but I probably wouldn't like any answer I'd be given so I'd just prefer not to know. Ignorance is bliss.
Entering the establishment, I take in the odor du jour. Immediately I smell the fries, which is odd to think about because potatoes aren't supposed to have that pervasive of an aroma. Frying tubers appears to give them supernatural powers of scent; all it takes is a hot oil bath in a stainless steel box manipulated by magical runes on the front of said box. I wonder if fried potatoes became just "fries" out of respect for the crazy degree of change in their smell.
There are a few other odorous traces lingering in the air as well. I can smell bleach, which is good. I like a clean restaurant. There's also a faint hint of ass whirling around my nasal passages. That one is not so good, and now I can't help but wonder what they're using the bleach to clean up.
Ambling through the lobby, I wander into the gaze of the only two patrons to be found within this fortress of fried foods, and I can feel the whole of them focused upon us: two men, four dead eyes, maybe eight teeth. I think I've found the source of the aforementioned body odor.