Masked officers invade people’s homes, kidnap and traffic them to another country. People are stolen off the street, packed into vans, leaving their children behind. As people try and stand up to protest, military forces are helicoptered in to shoot and assault unarmed people and reporters. Should a protestor fight back, they are filmed, uploaded onto social media, chastised for not following the principles of nonviolence from the safety of a mortgaged home. Tanks and military equipment are being shipped across state boundary lines. It feels as though there is something about to take place, like tasting electricity in the air, its seen in glances to strangers, eye contact, panic. The animals are returning home. A Strawberry Moon rises.
I glance away from my usual nonsense. Of all the times to go to the United States I had chosen the summer of 2025. I had plans, charts, diagrams, each encased in layers of post-it notes and loose paintings I had made from different energy drinks mixed with the remnants of empty packets of chips. In this bundle I had plotted the Ameripocalypse, stained in green ink, sweat and nicotine. Over the last couple of days I had been deeply meditating on my surroundings, aligning different elements, watch patterns form. I sat in the lotus position in the motel room, emerging back into consciousness after entering trances that would last hours. Around me I had made notes and drawings on top of ones I didn’t making. Some of them were in other persons handwriting.
In between I would sustain myself with fast food places, though this diet quickly had a severe impact on my health. I had forgotten how bad most of the food in the United States was. The core ingredients were as if somebody had sucked all the juice and nutrients before passing it to you. The obsession with seasoning stemmed from coating everything in two inches of sugar and paprika before dolloping a load of Uncle Buttfuckers Hotwing Ringsting Sauce over the top of it. It was obvious to any visitor that American cuisine was about how it looked rather than how it tasted, and so millions of people ate the same quality food as factory farmed animals. Of course, there were exceptions.
Tonight I was at Bad Daddy’s Burger Bar in Raleigh, home of the Badass Burger combo meal and bottomless Margaritas. I talk to the owner about his story
“It all started in 2007, when we started slinging the hottest burgers in Charlotte. Let’s just say, those assholes hadn’t tasted burgers this good since Ronald McDonald rode into town.”
I ask him about the corporate overview of Bad Daddy’s Burger Bar and the owner winks.
“Look, it’s a Nevada owned company called Good Times Restaurants Inc., who operate Bad Daddy’s Burger Bar as well as Good Times Burgers & Frozen Custard restaurants inc. limited. We got forty Bad Daddy’s across seven states. You want a badass time, how about we give you a badass burger?”
I ask him about the results for the recent quarter of this fiscal year and he tenses up.
“Let’s just say the total revenues are down by 3.3% compared to where we were last year, but here’s the zinger. We’re going to release a Sloppy Smack Shack Shake this summer. You get a free entry into a competitive draw where you get badass burgers for life.”
I ask him why he’s only spending $705 on advertising.
“Even though its just 2% of our revenue, we’re not in a brand position yet to open Bad Daddy Burger Bar franchises across all fifty states yet, alright? We like to keep it local. We source the best beef, I’ve plucked it from a barrel myself. I hold it aloft and call upon the burger gods to bless this beef and they do so.”
I say, it’s not that bad when you think about it, there are other economic factors at play. So you have to sell them more than a burger. You have to sell them a goddamn experience.
“I’m listening.” He says. I then explain to him how pretty much every person under the age of thirty was scared to leave the house or talk to people. The plan was simple. You offer people the chance to sit in the windows of your restaurants and pay them in burgers.
“How is that an experience?”
The experience is going outside and doing something. They will think its work, but actually, they get the chance to sit at a table in a Bad Daddy’s Burger Bar. That’s where the actual experience begins.
You see, it was quite simple. People would be paired up on tables. They would be instructed not to talk to each other. This gives both people the boundary of not having to talk or respond to somebody, but this comes more into play later. Towards the end of their shift, you would have Bad Daddy’s Burger Bar house band on stage and start to play rock ballads.
“Really?”
You play the rock ballads and dim the lights slightly so the people at the table feel as though maybe they can break the rules after all, their shift is nearly over, and what’s with this band playing rock ballads all of a sudden. Its actually kind of romantic. Do you see where I’m going?
“Dancing.”
That’s right. The shift ends, they think, I’ve had a burger and sat in silence for an hour, how about we dance to some Bryan Adams? And they’d start dancing and maybe hold each other close and they kind of like it, but there’s also the sadness that this moment is fleeting and they might never see each other again. That’s when you hit them with the 2-4-1 offer.
“Huh?”
Yep, 2-4-1 Thursdays, every week at Bad Daddy’s Burger Bar. It’s the place where lovers meet. So what do you think? I ask the guy. He squints and looks into the distance, nodding. Somewhere in the trees there was a cuckoo.
“You know what, I like it!” he yells, shaking my hand. We both smoke a congratulatory cigar out front, looking across at a car lot at the Archdale Building. I felt this summer might work out after all.
