I’ll take the number five, please

Raymond swayed in front of the McDonald’s cashier, contemplating whether or not to vomit. He ultimately decided that, no, it wouldn’t be in his best interest to blow chunks– someone might spit in his food.

 

After ordering something, Raymond sat next to the soda fountain and giggled as his vinyl seats squealed under his ass. He burped, vomited in his mouth, and gulped it back down. He groaned after; the sour mix of gin and beer left his throat raw on its way back down.

 

Behind the counter, the cashier wrapped the McChicken combo, fries, and an apple pie for the drunk over by the fountain. He looked like the guy, so he checked his phone once again for the description. “He’ll smell of booze, be wearing a brown leather jacket, and order a ‘McChicken apple combo pie.’” The cashier shrugged, added the extra happy meal, and called out Raymond’s number.

 

Raymond picked his head up and looked around. It must be his; he was the only one inside. He stood unsteadily. “This mine?” He shouted, accidentally. The cashier nodded. “Hey thanks, pal.” Raymond said, still having trouble controlling volume.

 

The McChicken meal was gone in an instant. Raymond had barely bothered to chew. Wrappers strewn about, Raymond squinted at the menu, then the cashier wondering whether or not another McChicken was in his future. In a last ditch effort he dug through wrappers looking for stray fries and found the small happy meal. He gasped and felt like praying. “Whas that line in Pulp Fiction… oh, right: Divine intervention.” Raymond muttered to himself. He dug his hand into the bag and was disappointed. Nothing was warm– in fact, everything was cold.  

 

“Oh, fuck.” Raymond said, pulling out the M9 pistol, his greasy fingers wrapped around the muzzle. “I didn’t order this.” His eyes darted for the cashier, who was nowhere in sight. Raymond placed the gun flat on his tray and covered it with the McChicken wrapper. He dipped his hand back in the happy meal. Keys? A phone?

 

The phone started to ring  at once. Raymond, on instinct flipped out the phone and answered. “Hullo. Gofer Raymond,” he slurred.

 

The voice on the other end was emotionless and cold. “Your target will be arriving in a silver acura at the Gulf station across the street in 20 minutes. His associates are expendable too.” Click.

 

Raymond pulled the phone away and looked at it long and hard. He unburied the gun and picked it up, checking first to see if the cashier was visible. The weight of it in hand unnerved Raymond. He dug into his jacket for his own phone. 1 text from Sam. “Me an d Tara are goin to waves, see you at home lter. Luv you.” Raymond licked his finger and put the phone and gun back in the happy meal and walked up to the counter.

 

“Hey man, I think you gavemethis by miss-take.” Raymond said. The cashier stood, unresponding. The door behind Raymond swung open as another drunk stumbled in.

 

“Nice jacket,” Raymond said, patting the other man on the back and simultaneously pulling up Uber.

 

Prompt: You walk into a McDonald’s to pick up breakfast after a night of heavy drinking. You receive a free happy meal containing a phone, a gun and a set of keys.

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