Toby chomped on his fresh, toasty McGriddle in the car on a rainy June morning, Beethoven's 5th playing softly on the radio. He had been camped outside City Hall since dark, waiting for the tip to pay off, but he might have dozed off by now if not for the slightly gooey, but forever delicious McGriddle to nibble on. It was almost hard to focus on his job with the taste of maple tumbling about between his cheeks. But he just had to have it. He would die for it.
But he would also die for a scoop.
A tip at the office of "The Daily Star" had led him to believe that the mayor would be meeting soon with infamous lobbyist Jack Eggsenoff to accept a bribe in exchange for "favors" and Toby Tomf, intrepid reporter, was going to catch them in the act.
Like clockwork, Eggsenoff rolled up in the parking lot in his black Rolls Royce. The sinister looking, pale man swept from the driver's seat wearing his even blacker trench coat and fedora, and a mysterious ebony box.
Toby choked down the last of his McGriddle in a manner more rushed than he would have prefered and chased after the lobbyist. He chased Eggsenoff into City Hall, pushing through the doors and corridors, always just far enough away to not be noticed by the shadowy lobbyist.
Finally, Toby found himself just outside the mayor's office. He turned on his tape recorder.
"Did you bring them?" squeaked the mayor's high-pitched voice.
"Of course I did," hissed Eggsenoff, followed by the sound of him opening the mysterious box. "Just remember, allow my associates to do whatever they want with the city park."
"Yes, yes! Of course Mr. Eggsenoff!" the mayor cackled greedily. "Anything you want! I've been waiting a long time for this!"
The time was now! Toby came around the corner and pointed an accusing finger at the mayor. "Aha! Caught you!"
The mayor, jaw hanging, looked like a child who had just had his pants pull down. Eggsenoff glared at Toby with hatred. On the floor was the ebony box, wide open and displaying what must have been at least 250 frozen McGriddles.
"Of course," Toby laughed. "Only McGriddles were delicious enough to get a man of the mayor's stature to sell out his entire political career. I should have seen it all along."
The crowd roared, but I just smirked, the moment Brandon Roy brought down his slam dunk. It was his second tomahawk dunk of the night, but this one was, unarguably, superior to the first: it brought the team to 101 points, and that meant everyone in the crowd won a free chalupa. I smirked because I didn't care about free chalupas. Plus I wasn't even in the crowd anyway. I was in bed at home, watching the game on my plasma TV.
I'd stockpiled a dozen McGriddles in the cooler next to my bed. This was definitely the right occasion to pull out one and munch down. Heck, any occasion is right for a McGriddle. Sometimes I walk out of my bathroom, spy my cooler, and am like, dang I'm totally gonna get down with a McGriddle right now. And I do, and it's great.
I think I'd start actually going to the games if they gave out free McGriddles after 100 points. But I was telling my main McGriddite Josh the other day that I doubt the stadium would give out McGriddles unless the game was a morning game. And there aren't really morning games in basketball. But there probably should be, if only for the opportunity for free McGriddle. But then Josh said, "I bet I'd probably go to games if they gave out free McSkillets." And I was like, damn it Josh, shut up.
But then he looked me straight in the eye, and said, "Don't even talk, because McGriddles are awesome breakfast food, and you're taking advantage of them by eating them all the time. You gotta keep it sacred. You gotta keep it real."
And I thought about it for a second, thinking maybe he was right. Maybe I'm devaluing them by eating them so much.
But then I looked down, like I often do, at my cooler, and I felt so happy inside. I can't help it: I love having a stockpile of McGriddles by my side, and I hope that feeling never fades.
Awake. Look at my cell to find the time? No need. I wake up around this time every day. Light from the window on the right streams in. Why does the one on the left never let light in? Shame shades, same blinds.
Cough a little. The sounds of others getting up. Yeah, it must be around 6:40. She’ll call some time in the next twenty minutes. Or not. But she will. She’ll call and ask me to come in today. She’ll do it because, ugh. ( Collapse )
Grant was furious as he stepped out of his black Cadillac El Dorado into the waning sunlight. The past week had been the most unsatisfying of his professional career. Man was said to be the greatest prey, the most thrilling animal to hunt. After years spent rising to the peak of his craft, Grant looked forward to the experience of tracking this quarry and closing in for a calculated end game. But all week long Mister Morgan Freaking Spurlock had been traipsing around the city, a dandy in a light sweater, smiling and greeting strangers who fawned and giggled over him. It made Grant sick. It was like Theodore Roosevelt looking out the White House window one day to find a lion tending the garden. ( Collapse )