The End of The City: In MacDonalds.

In MacDonalds…Death is on the counter and the corpses are lined up to the door. This is a marching routine, as Satan turns up the heat and old lovers sit by peeling tables in order to eat. I want my digestion and I want my home, but find none. Menu 1 to Menu 8 look like serial rapists and instead I just order a cheeseburger. This is the good shit. The filthy wrongness that’s actually not that bad. Quit rubbing it in. Throw a 99p apple pie in for good manners. I pull my headphones off my ears and drop them to my throat so that I can hear the mechanism of the kid behind the cash machine.
‘Eh?’
‘What?’
‘Init?’
‘Erm…’
‘Isit?’
‘Yeah mate.’
‘Safe blud.’
Very British London conversations going on all around me. Something dull is in the air. And I get a quick flashback of what my life and world once was.
– I should be in a van now, somewhere on the otherside,
passing through villages and towns that take a while to
absorb. Learning from people and sharing –
‘£3.47.’
I pull out several rounds of shrapnel from my pockets and count the change. Too many 2p coins to bother, so I drop the entire load in the kid’s palm.
He looks damaged.
‘Safe.’
The kid makes no response. Head down into machine, head up for change, head forward for the next customer.
I pull my headphones back from my throat and onto my ears and pull my black hood over the entire network and walk past several groups of midnight zombies.
‘And now…we’re both almost extinct.’

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