As I've mentioned previously, I work with the Indian. Now, he and I have known each other a long time, from when we were crazy young men. Mrs. Indian is a good, patient woman too, just like Mrs. Fixer is. Indian and I do a lot of things well together, namely fix cars and drink, but other stuff too. No, not THAT stuff, get your mind out of the gutter.
Anyway, since I've known him, he hasn't had any luck in fast food places. Never, nowhere, nohow, he always runs into . . . communications . . . problems with the hired help at Mickey D's or Taco Hell. Well, last night was no different.
The mistake was made when Mrs. Indian let him go out without adult supervision and was exacerbated when the confused trainee at Wendy's who spoke no English was fucking everyone's order to Hell.
Unbelievably, the Garden City Police didn't push the issue after escorting him out, stressing he shouldn't be using the F-word at the top of his lungs in front of families eating their dinner. Also unbelievably, he actually got his stuff, including the two sodas that he didn't want and were the spark that ignited the powderkeg. Luckily for him he did, or Mrs. Indian would have stapled his testicles to the wall when he finally got home an hour later.
So, now my dear friend can't go for fast food without Mrs. Indian present. (She informed me that I don't qualify as adult supervision, go figure. BTW, Mrs. F agrees with Mrs. I.) And he's only allowed to go to the drive up when they do. How quickly she forgets the incident in another Wendy's one night when he had the drive-thru guy yanked through the little window and halfway into his car. Ha, this should be good.