The takeout speaker at Wendy’s keeps urging me to kill.
It asks if I want to upgrade my fries and drink, and tells me everyone I know plots secretively against me.
It tells me my total is $6.79, and reminds me that I, the Angel of Death, have a duty to rain vengeance down upon the heads of the infidels.
It tells me to pull up to the pickup window for my meal, then go home and butcher my family before eating it.
I worry I’m going mad.
And wonder how boring working the takeout window of Wendy’s must be.