An Incredibly Stupid Story I wrote One Night

It's about how McDonalds is really a front for an extra-dimensional horror. Like I said, it's very, very stupid. BEHOLD:

It was only a mater of time before he rose. I don’t know why we acted so surprised. Maybe we just didn’t want to admit we felt it coming, maybe we were too stupid to care. Or maybe the cynics were right, and we really had convinced ourselves that a big rusty machine shitting pinkish paste into gooey, greasy meat was a normal way to prepare food. Whatever. We should have seen it coming, and we should have stopped it.
Coulda, shoulda, woulda... Didn’t. For 65 years, the McDonald’s franchise ran unopposed save for a few lame protests from PETA, and for 65 years their power built up in preparation for the Summoning.
The people who died from the food were sacrifices, the golden arches were tuning forks for the spiritual energy, and the giant statues of Ronald McDonald all around the world were totems to pour that energy into. That pink slime everyone was so upset about? Ectoplasm.
You and I and billions of others scarfed down fat-encrusted, chemically altered, steroid-injected meat for decades, absorbing the ectoplasmic paste and taking one step closer to an early grave. Children were indoctrinated from day 1 to love Ronald, to recognize him instantly wherever they went. How could he be seen as anything less than a god?
This thing has been running since 1948; it was only a matter of time before they hit one billion corpses. All over the country, the golden arches began glowing, vibrating, and turning. Turning ever so slightly. I can imagine the people in the parking lots, all of them thinking the same thing: They can’t be moving. They can’t be bending toward Illinois, where McDonald’s HQ is. That can’t be a swarm of locusts, or a flock of birds dropping out of the sky like bricks, or a series of hushed, ragged whispers from the dark corners of the room saying “Thirsty... So thirsty...”
Of course not, they thought, that would be crazy. It must be all the sugar in this drink. But it wasn’t, was it? We know that now. And we knew it then, when the sky started changing colors like a broken TV and the spirits of the damned clung to the golden arches like hair caught in a drain.
There they were, all our old friends and relatives who’d clogged their hearts until they stopped, spinning and screaming just before they collapsed into the sacrificial arches.
The signs were everywhere. In Pennsylvania, a large herd of cows all died at exactly the same time, of heart attacks. In Yorkshire, a baby was born with a rash on her face in the shape of clown makeup, an “M” of scar tissue bleeding on her chest. In Cleveland, an actor portraying Ronald McDonald for an elementary school class began uncontrollably screaming in an unknown language before dying of a massive stroke.
And in McDonald’s all over the planet, just as the arches shined brighter than ever, the headsets of the employees clamped down like rabid animals, digging under their flesh with hooks of plastic and melted flesh. Each of them felt something sharp and wet digging into their ear meat, growling sonnets composed entirely of obscenities.
And all of it to announce His coming. The Clown. In their Illinois headquarters, deep in the basement where cameras aren’t allowed, there is a secret training facility. If you’ve ever wondered where those children on milk cartons wind up, this is one of the places. They are trained in a style similar to child soldiers employed by African warlords. During the 60 minutes a day they are not training, they are made to watch the McDonalds new employee training video. When commanded, they will recite “QUALITY, SERVICE, CLEANLINESS, VALUE” in the exact pitch, tone, and inflection of CEO James Skinner. If the mantra is off by one iota, they are beaten with a sharpened spatula. This private army, trained for four generations now, is to take over day-to-day “law” enforcement when the camps are constructed.
Deep within the catacombs, the cadavers of Richard and Maurice McDonald have been carefully preserved for these many years, waiting. Three hours before the Summoning began, their bodies were thawed, warpaint was applied, and they were both dressed in red and yellow vestments. Nostalgia for the Inquisition, perhaps. Grease and boiled fat were run through their long-atrophied veins while lambs were slaughtered in the next room. Yearning for the blood of the innocent, the withered, atrophied corpses rose. And spoke.
They spoke such evils as have never been heard before on this or any other world. They spoke of the splattered angels and the vomit-king; of the bleeding moon and the fetal eels; of The Maw that awaits at the end of every life to rend it into Nothing; they spoke such filth that their mouths bled and their teeth rotted and their lungs filled with pus.
All the PA systems and headsets in all the McDonald’s the world over broadcast their twin abominations’ guttural, gleeful blasphemies to shred the eardrums of any luckless bastard close enough to hear them.
To hear demons such as this speak, even from a distance, is to risk madness. The hapless employees had the vulgar ravings burned directly into their minds as the withered, spiked tendril bored ever further into their skulls. Their wills were broken within minutes, and their bodies soon followed. They became twisted brutes who promptly began culling the customers, though this time they were quicker about it.
There is a 30-foot iron statue of Ronald McDonald just outside HQ, overlooking the fountains. It had been remarked that the statue’s face appeared disconcerting, even predatory. The upper management laughed the concerns off. Now the malice in the thing’s eyes was unmistakable, and it’s mouth began to drip with yellowish saliva. In preparation for the manifestation, the fountains were shut off and filled with the thickest, foulest, grease in the world; grease so putrid and disgusting Willie Nelson wouldn’t fuel his bus with it. The burners beneath the fountains ignited, and the grease began to bubble.
The statue shook, as though rocked from the inside. Video evidence broadcast from the scene shows the statue’s head turning and appearing to sniff the air. There was a terrible sound, like thousands of screaming people thrown into a tornado of shattered glass all at once, and then reality cracked in half. Something incomprehensibly vile burrowed through the fabric of space and time and nestled into it’s true skin.
Like a coat worn by a snake, the statue’s limbs violently flailed around, cracking and reassembling and cracking again, operating the creaking limbs like a man awakening from a coma. The statue, animated now with something that was alive, but not life, swung itself around like a stop motion movie monster before at last ripping it’s feet free from the concrete below. The Clown had arrived.