A Filet-O-Fish is going to kill the President of the United States, and somewhere in America today, the specific Filet-O-Fish in question is being defrosted.
One sandwich. Not six. Not a long tail of theoretical future sandwiches in some loose epidemiological aggregate. Just the one. There exists, on the planet, at this hour, a single frozen pollock patty in a vacuum-sealed plastic sleeve, racked next to forty-seven of its identical brothers in the back of a refrigerated Sysco truck somewhere on Interstate 95, that is the sandwich. The one with his name on it. It will be dunked into a hot fryer in roughly the time it takes you to finish this paragraph. It will be welded to a yellow rectangle of cheese product that has been waiting for it since Tuesday. It will be married to its bun by an underpaid sixteen-year-old named Brayden, who has been on his feet for six hours, who is thinking about whether his shift ends at nine or nine-thirty, who is mildly concerned about his algebra grade, and who is, in approximately eleven minutes, going to alter the constitutional trajectory of the United States of America with a single pneumatic squirt of tartar sauce.
The cheeseburgers have been auditioning for the role for sixty years and have not been able to land it. The Diet Cokes have tried, sincerely, with their feet up. The pickled onions have shown flashes but lack the closing instinct. Only the Filet-O-Fish has the patience. Only the Filet-O-Fish has been quietly sitting in the back of his bloodstream since 1962, doing crossword puzzles, waiting for the call. It does not announce itself. It does not posture. It waits.
The doctor will sign the bulletin.
Brayden has already signed it.
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Stalin had a last drink, someone made the bullet that was in Berlin in ‘45, Mussolini put on pants on his final day……C’mon Fillet.
Made me laugh😂