The clock strikes eleven on a handcrafted grandfather clock that sits upon ancient gold shag carpet. As feet shuffle across the dated floor coverings, sparks of static energy prob the feet. Thus begins the daily epic adventure of Wendell, the Burger King.
Meet a man seasoned in years and experience. Wendell is not only a veteran of the United States Air Force, but he is a veteran of the 90th South Burger King. Upon his arrival at said fast food facility, the hired staff begins a fairly unfrantic preparation of the same exact order. Junior Whooper with bacon and extra onions next to a senior Diet Coke; the menu has not changed in 16 years.
I will now combine all my experiences with our saga's hero into a single event with minor filters.
The Buick came to her usual resting place as two heavy set women exited the building. Wendell turned to me and said, "What were they doing?" To this I replied, "I think they were eating Grandpa." In pure honesty his rebuttal came, "Well, I hope their is some food left for us."
Walking to the door Wendell holds my hand to stabilize his shaky stride. "How do my hands feel? Good as a girl's?" Laughing, I agreed that his hand was in fact very soft. "I used lotion this morning, just for you," snickered Wendell.
The facial hair upon my chin was brutally tugged by Wendell's one hand. His aged voice questioned, "Why are you cultivatin' that on your chin? That stuff grows wild on my toosh!"
And finally, "You're looking good, queer bate." And thus ends a day with Wendell, the Burger King.