Fry Day

Reginald looked a lot like one would expect. He was distinguished, tall, thin, and had a Wondrous Moustache. His hair was white and he wore a top hat and a fine black suit coat. He sat in his office, watching the second hand tick closer and closer to the end of the day. Fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven, fifty eight...The clock stopped. "Donald, my clock needs new batteries," Reginald called through the door to his secretary's office. The put upon young man opened the door, carrying a pack of fresh batteries. Wordlessly, he opened the clock and removed the old batteries. After they were replaced, he walked sorrowfully and slowly out of the room. Reginald checked the clock: Fifty nine, sixty. "Huzzah!" He exclaimed, jumping out of his chair. It was quitting time.

***

Reginald sauntered down the street, tipping his hat to several ladies and potatoes. He stepped into a well maintained black Lincoln. "You know where to go, my good man," he told the driver.

"Indeed. Another good day at work, sir?" The man, whose name was Robert, inquired.

Reginald grinned. "Absolutely." There was silence as they watched the buildings on the sides of the road and the small patches of potato gardens morph into derelict shells and scorched earth where nothing would dare grow. (Excepting, of course, the occasional dandelion, which didn't mind the smell) The car approached a parking lot with faded yellow lines that nearly all drivers ignored. It was packed with a variety of cars, from beat up Dodge Neons to pristine Lincoln Town Cars like Reginald's. It appeared to be just a normal parking lot, with a portable toilet and not much else in the way of attractions.

"I won't be long," Reginald assured his chauffeur, who nodded in understanding. After his boss left Robert remained silent.

He shrugged. "Everyone's weird somehow, I guess," he muttered.

***

Reginald walked into the toilet and locked the door. Then he knocked a precise pattern on the floor. There was a pneumatic hiss, which resulted in the inside of the toilet moving down like an elevator. After a few minutes, he opened the door and stepped into the dark tunnel. A brief walk later and he was waiting in line. A wash of terror nearly flooded Reginald's brain, before slowly draining away to a minor annoyance. He couldn't believe he hadn't gotten used to it yet. The line moved slowly, but eventually he reached the front, where a disgruntled, short woman in an apron asked for his order. "The usual, miss," he requested eloquently.

"An order of French fries!" She turned to yell behind her. There was a sizzling sound as she turned back to Reginald. "That'll be five fifty five and twenty one cents." He smirked at the good deal. It was at least twenty percent lower than last week. Pulling out his wallet, he counted out five hundred sixty dollars in cash and passed it to the woman. "Of course you're still a lousy tipper. Well, see ya later," she shrugged. Another worker stepped forward, holding a basket of fries. Just as he was about to hand it to Reginald, there was a loud bang from the direction of the entrance. The man quickly handed over the fries, and rushed into the back, followed by nearly everyone else in the restaurant.

A voice came through a megaphone. "This is the police! We have this place surrounded! Come out with your hands up! If you don't hurt any potatoes, your sentence can be reduced!" Behind him, he heard a heavy lock click into place, signaling his fate. Reginald's hands shook as he ate a single fry, then placed the basket delicately on the ground. He complied with the voice's instructions and walked slowly towards it. Two cops rushed out and handcuffed him. One of them read him his rights.

He finished, then asked, "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

"They're just fries," Reginald whispered.

"They're not just fries. Potatoes are thinking, living beings that deserve our respect," the cop replied.