“And you're certain it doesn't have cheese?” The cashier could keep herself from rolling her eyes, which would in the eyes of Dairy Queen's policies be considered a rude gesture to any customer, but she could not keep the unamused flatness out of her voice or the trace of a sneer from her lips. Even though she'd only been working at this location for less than a year, it felt like a lifetime. Every day people came by with the same stuck-up attitudes and flagrant disregard for common courtesy, their complaints seldom differing by more than a few words. It felt like a role-playing game where she'd exhausted all the NPCs' dialog options several times over. If not for the numbness, it would have been infuriating. This customer, in particular, rubbed her the wrong way. Huge and imposing, with a ridiculous mustache, stupid outfit, and an annoying smile she knew was an overdone fake, he was surely testing her patience. More than a minute to figure out what he wanted to order? Changing his mind mid-order? She bet he did this all the time, probably at every fast-food place he stuffed himself at. “...Yes sir.” The red-whiskered mad nodded, received his card back, and stepped to the side. A few moments later his milkshake came out. After turning it upside down in her franchise's characteristic display of the concrete ice cream's consistency, the cashier handed it over, who held it in his hand. Minutes passed, with the large fellow standing patiently by for his order to appear. As the wait approached the four-minute mark, the ice cream in his hand began to melt over the side of his cup, though he didn't notice until the cool, sticky liquid trickled onto his fingers. Aghast, he rushed over to the utensil counter, pulling out napkins to try and mop the mess up. Twice he looked over to the main counter, but no orders seemed to be coming, so at last the beleaguered man simply dropped the whole shebang through the hole into the trash can. The dispenser had, unfortunately, run out of napkins. Popping over to the main counter, he asked, “Excuse me, do you have any spare paper towels?” Looking over from the customer she'd just dealt with -the last in line- the cashier grimaced. “Oh, did you spill everywhere?” Bushy ginger eyebrows furrowed, and their owner pulled his dripping hands back. The notion of giving her the response he felt she deserved did occur to him, but he took a more positive route. With a strained smile he replied, “No, I didn't. If you wouldn't mind, may I have some pa-” “Arthur!” Arthur St. Anger glanced over to the young man who held a brown bag in his hands—his order had arrived. “Thank you,” he told the deliverer, and opened the bag to retrieve the napkins nested inside. After wiping his hands and disposing of the remains, he headed for the door without another word to the waiting taxi outside. “Thought you said you'd be less than six minutes?” As Arthur piled in, he gave the cab driver a sheepish look. “My apologies!” He replied, some of his annoyance coming through in his tone. “Things took longer than I thought.” He glanced at his watch. “Nine-thirty rush, I suppose, though I must have just missed all the people.” The cab began to move, resuming its journey to the destination Arthur requested at the airport, for which a supposedly quick stop at Dairy Queen had been a detour. [i]Another year, another taste of American fast food. Would have preferred a Subway, but this was on the way, and after a long flight surely a little indulgence is understandable.[/i] Settling in, Arthur retrieved his Grillburger, but something yellow and gooey perched on the light sandwich's patty caught his eye. He gave a great sigh. “Delightful.” Good old bland, tasteless American cheese. [i]Couldn't these stores just use cheddar? Or deliver the milkshake along with the food so it doesn't get a chance to melt? Ah, well. I imagine the employees aren't paid enough to care. I understand that such work is tiresome and unsatisfying, but that doesn't mean they need to take it out on us by doing a poor job.[/i] Still, a shame that his early lunch turned out so disappointing. He shot a furtive glance at the cab driver, who appeared to be minding the road, as usual. Holding the cheeseburger in one hand, he spread the other's fingers wide, facing the palm toward it. Unseen to his oblivious chauffeur, a silvery glimmer filled the back of the car, and on its heels came a purple-tinged wave. The sandwich began to vibrate, growing blurry, until out from it popped a wedge of American cheese. When Arthur examined the former cheeseburger again, he found no trace of the distasteful contaminant. “There we are,” he murmured to himself as he placed the cheese inside the bag, quite pleased. “No problem that a little innovation can't resolve.” [center]-=-=-[/center] Staring at the great white building with hands on his hips, and his suitcase resting beside him, Arthur declared, “So, this is the domain of the eminent Speedwagon Foundation!” Eyes half-closed, the cab driver threw him a look. Did this guy just not have a filter between his brain and his mouth, or did he imagine himself narrating for some reality drama? “Uh. Yeah. Just like you wanted. That'll be ten eighty.” Arthur removed his wallet from a zipped pocket in his purple slacks, and from it produced a ten and a one. The process took him a few moments, since unlike Canadian money the bills shared a very similar if not the very same color, but he did not mind. There wasn't a lot of American cash remaining, afterward, but he could always get more, or just use his card. Once paid, the taxi driver appeared to forget that Arthur existed, pulling away without even waiting for the former wrestler to distance himself from the vehicle's tires. Arthur, however, just chuckled. “Hm. Whether in Ottawa or Washington, living in a big city means living life a mile a minute. Then again, even Ottawa wasn't this rushed.” He turned his eyes back toward the structure that, to a Canadian, could practically have been the White House. After grabbing the handle of his bag, he proceeded down the walkway bordered by well-kept lawns, toward the front door situated in the middle of the grandiose building's three arches. He wiped a small shred of lettuce from his mustard shirt and straightened the front from where it had ridden up during the cab ride, then put on a contemplative face. “So, here it is. The gate to a secret world, hidden in plain sight. Let's see what you have in store.” He pulled open the door and sauntered inside. Staff ushered the new arrival to a waiting room, relieving him of his baggage as he went. Upon pushing open the door, he found himself in a neat little room with tables, chairs, plants, and a few paintings, stately as one could ask for. In that first moment he also saw that he wasn't alone. Two young women had arrived before him, one in garb he could only describe as gothic with dark hair and expression to match, and the other far more delicate-looking, with purple hair and a shrinking demeanor. Neither looked particularly amicable, but that wasn't Arthur's problem. “Good morning!” he thundered. “I wasn't told much, so I didn't expect others to be summoned as well, but I am nevertheless glad to make your acquaintance.” He slammed himself down in a chair, figuring that neither particularly wanted to shake hands, though his decision to refrain from entering what they might consider their personal space did not mean he would leave them alone. “My name is Arthur St. Anger. Perhaps you've happened to hear of me? In my earlier years I was a wrestler of some renown, though I don't like to boast...too much, that is! Either way, it's always a great pleasure to meet people like you, tied together as we are by the threads of fate.”