Scott F. Willard sat on his jail cell's cot and waited for the prison guard to take him to the courthouse, where he'd hear a lawyer try to convince a jury that he was an accomplice to mass murder.
It's not fair. I was just an actor—acting as a company's spokesman, Scott thought. When does acting deserve a death sentence? Well, maybe if you're a real bad actor you deserve death. But I was good! Maybe too good. But—
Scott knew he could only fool himself and not any jury; for if being guilty was a math formula, he and his co-conspirator, Sam Jefferson, were guilty squared. Any lawyer's words could never let a jury forget the men's incriminating words that were surreptitiously recorded by the FBI:
"C'mon, Scott. You're more than my company's pitchman. I look at you as an older brother to me who, who knows w-w-when—"
"Yeah, guess I'm a company man all the way—all the way to the gas chamber. Oh well. There's worse ways of dying. Like eating only organic food.""Hold on. Whenever you stammer, I know something's eating at you. Are you worried about anyone being on to your money laundering? Is that why you're a little, huh, n-n-n-nervous?"
"It's not that. I'm stammering because I got word from one of our meat processing facilities that a batch of burgers was mistakenly sent out. The mistake and now the problem is, this batch tested positively for E-coli."
"Hold on. When you say a ‘batch,' how many burgers are you talking about?"
"Around fifty."
"God, Sam! That's awful! E-Coli is not good P.R."
"For some other company and country—but not mine."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that bad batch won't be eaten in America. See, the meat processing plant was in Sioux City, Iowa, and 99.9% of its, ahem, ‘batches' get shipped to China."
"Great! If it winds up there, we can blame their unsanitary food handlers and not our meat processing plant…like we did for that last e-coli outbreak in Pakistan."
"Exactly! And I know I don't have to say this, but all this information is strictly confidential. If word got out that we have ten pounds of bad burgers, we'd have to throw away 50 tons of beef."
"Mum's the word, Sam. Our jobs are to sell billions of burgers; not lose billions of dollars. I, huh, guess."
"Good. But—um, why the ‘n-n-n-nervous' face, Scott?"
"Just thinking. What if the ‘99.9% odds' that it gets shipped to China—what if those odds aren't in our favor? And the bad batch winds up in America?"
"Hey. Even if it does kill Americans, I'll rather have fifty people go down for good than our stock to temporarily go down."
"I agree. Losing fifty fatties is better than losing billions of dollars."
Fifty people didn't wind up dying. But 39 people from a single McDonald's restaurant in Schaumburg, IL lost their lives. And 39 people would still be alive if Sam Jefferson or Scott Willard did what they believed was unthinkable: put people's lives over their company's profits.
"What was done, was done," Scott said as he paced his cell. "Now it's time. Time for me to suffer all the consequences. But first—"
Scott reached under his bedframe, removed a flat cardboard box containing his "Ronald McDonald" costume and giddily put on his old work clothes. Against his lawyer's advice that he'd be making a mockery of the court and "sticking it to the judge and jury," Scott decided he'd wear his company clothes at his trial. He felt that if he was going to go down, he'd go down "wearing the uniform of his company's ship."
He sighed and his throat tightened. After a quarter of a century of playing Ronald McDonald, just seeing the colors yellow and red next to each other still made Scott grow goose pimples and occasionally leak tears of pride and joy.
Scott didn't look at himself as a 58-year-old guy in a clown suit. As he told his ex-wife: "I'm not just any clown. I'm the Ronald McDonald; a beloved, instantly recognizable icon and more popular than Jesus Christ. After all, way more people go to a McDonald's to get fed than they go to a church to feed their pathetic souls."
Scott would put his undying allegiance to McDonald's on public display by having a 5′ x 5′ flag made of himself dressed as Ronald McDonald, standing against a yellow- and red-striped background. Each morning, he'd run the "Ronald McDonald flag" up his front yard's flagpole and salute it as if "McDonald Land" was his native country and sing its national anthem:
"You deserve a break today—so get up and get away—to McDonald's!"
Scott loved everything about the job, from slapping on white grease paint, a red-striped shirt, red wig, size 45 shoes, and rubber nose; to visiting a Ronald McDonald House and trying to make kids with cancer laugh; going on "Toy Tours," which meant traveling across America and handing out movie-tin-in toys to children in McDonald's indoor "Playlands"; to handing out diplomas to graduates of "Hamburger University;" a training facility for restaurant managers in Oak Brook, Illinois.
Yes, Scott knew he was different than the "average American." Most loved smelling coffee brewing in the morning; he loved the scent of hamburgers grilling in the afternoon.
"Yeah, guess I'm a company man all the way—all the way to the gas chamber. Oh well. There's worse ways of dying. Like eating only organic food," he mused as he put on his oversized shoes. He wiped away tears, looked at the camera pointing towards his cell and thought, "There's worse ways to die than eating an e-coli burger. Like eating this!"
He ripped open the sole of his left shoe, pried two fingers in a carved out hole and removed a capsule filled with yellow powder. Scott crushed it between his teeth, weakly saluted then whispered, "Long live McDonald Land!"
* * *
As the prison guard unlocked the cell, Scott Williard's eyelids slowly closed.
* * *
When Scott opened his eyes, he faced a Jersey cow standing on its back hooves and dressed in an ash gray three piece suit. Scott smiled and thought, That is one hell of a cow costume. Wow! Wait… Is it a costume?
"You used my kind to quench your thirst for watered down blood… didn't you? How many innocent creatures will you put in slaughterhouses before the world screams, ‘Enough!'" As part of his Ronald McDonald job, Scott personally visited stockyards and smelled a cow's hide up close and what stood before him had the same odor, which was a combination of methane mixed with dated hay.
And this actor in the cow suit—he smells the same, Scott thought. No. That doesn't make this thing a cow. The guy inside must've been sprayed with some kind of specially made "stockyard perfume." But—wait. "Cowman" just stuck out his tongue at me. And it's a foot long tongue! Like a real cow! No, his tongue must be fake too. Or he's all fake—and is a hologram? Or maybe that pill I paid my lawyer to hide in my shoe…it's giving me hallucinations? Or, or, is-is-is the federal government doing all this to make me think I'm crazy—or to drive me crazy? Or am I—
"No. You're not dreaming, Ronald," Cowman's deep voice finished Scott's thoughts. "I'm a cow and a lawyer and you're on trial for mass murder."
"But—I was just an actor; reading off of cue cards! I didn't kill anyone. Sam Jefferson is responsible for those 39 people."
"Who cares about those 39 stupid nutrition challenged humans? This trial is about you taking part in mass murdering billions of cows."
"What?!"
Cowlawyer stepped to the side to show Scott that he was in a courtroom and the spectators, the jury, the judge, the lawyers and the bailiff were cows wearing "human clothes." A Bible was placed in front of Scott's right hand and Cowbailiff asked:
"Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
Scott felt that if he was going to be tried as Ronald McDonald by cows, then he'd no longer be Scott Willard. He'll be his alter-ego. And Ronald McDonald is damn proud to represent the greatest company in the world and isn't about to let a dumb, smelly Cowlawyer embarrass him.
"You bet your burgers I do!" Scott answered in his Ronald McDonald raspy voice. "Speaking of burgers, is this the Nuremburger trial, cow counsel?"
"We call it justice," Cowlawyer said.
"And we call Ronald McDonald its minister of propaganda!" a Cowspectator yelled.
"Order in the court!" Cowjudge said as he slammed his gavel. "Proceed, counsel."
"Mr. McDonald. Is it true that you and your superiors are responsible for the mass murder of billions of cows?"
"I was never made aware of that number."
"You represent a gazillion dollar corporation but don't know how it earns its assets?" he scoffed.
"My leaders only told me what they wanted me to know," Scott answered, looking into Cowlawyer's huge brown eyes.
"Which was…?"
"Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. You read me?"
"No, but you are a well-read clown. Are you not?"
"You're talking to a valedictorian of Hamburger University."
"And as such, you're required to attend many a McDonald's store opening?"
"If I didn't, I'd be terminated—in more than one way."
Cowlawyer opened a legal folder and removed a 8½" x 11" photograph of two yellow arches standing in a typical McDonald's parking lot. Three other stuffed folders were marked "Exhibit A – Apple Pie," "Exhibit B – Big Mac," and "Exhibit C – Cheeseburger."
"Let it be known to this court, that at the time of Mr. McDonald's arrest, this learned clown could not read his flagship store's two story sign, proclaiming ‘100 billion served.'"
"That sign is wrong!"
"So it's not 100 billion ‘terminated?'"
"We hit the 100 billion mark in 1999. I'm proud to say that the death toll and our profit margin changes every second."
"Then to your knowledge, what is the current number?"
"Actually—my records were lost in the last burger war."
Cowlawyer reached into another legal folder and removed a photograph of another McDonald's sign showing:
"As of this very date, 999 billion bovines have lost their lives! Is this sign correct? Or do all your yellow arches lie like you about the heifer holocaust?"
"No, they and I never lie. But—can we call a recess? I feel a ‘Big Mac Attack' coming on."
"There was a good reason why your company used the word ‘attack' in that ad campaign. For that's what you did to innocent cows—like this one!"
Cowlawyer placed his hands under his bench, grabbed a Big Mac, and held it up for everyone to see. Every cow in the courtroom gasped and cried, knowing that the Big Mac might very well be the remains of a loved one. Cowlawyer waved it before Ronald's face.
"You used my kind to quench your thirst for watered down blood… didn't you? How many innocent creatures will you put in slaughterhouses before the world screams, ‘Enough!' How many Styrofoam, quarter pound caskets will pollute this planet for eternity? How many acres of land will this company devour and waste for profit? How many arteries will you permanently clog? Mr. McDonald, have you no shame?"
"I was only following orders."
"And whose may those be? We want names, Mr. McDonald. Who was your superior?"
"It was—the Grimace!"
"Do you expect this court to believe some mumbling, Muppet head goofball named ‘Grimace,' the 20-year-old simpleton stepson of Sam Jefferson, he's the mastermind behind a mass genocide?!"
"He was! Grimace was the one who wanted to conquer the world. He-he— He said domination in America wasn't enough. No, Grimace wanted Europe in the palms of his white gloved hands. He took over Poland, then Czechoslovakia then…then…he wanted to digest it all—with a large Coca Cola. And— he wanted to terminate me because he's thirty years younger than I am and wants my job!"
"That is not true and you know it. We are waiting."
As Cowattorney looked away for a split second, Ronald grabbed "Exhibit A – Apple Pie," and held it like it was a knife.
"You'll never take me alive!"
"Look out! He's holding a hot apple pie!" a Cowspecatator shouted.
"And I know how to use it! Now back off. Or— or—"
"You'll what? He's speechless! He can't say anything unless someone tells him what to say!"
"I'll burn my brains out!"
"If you think that'll make this world a better place, then burn, clownie, burn."
Scott bit into the apple pie, swallowed and felt as if every organ in his body was on fire. He doubled over in the chair, which only caused a chorus of laughter to ring throughout the courtroom. Scott tried to stand, only to fall to his knees and beg for help. Mocking voices replied:
"Ha! We should help you?"
"Listen to Ronald! A mass murderer is asking his victims to help?"
"How did you help us?"
"I'll help you when you help me find my family you slaughtered!"
"Make us all happy and croak, Ronny!"
"Die, Ronald, die!" a voice yelled. Immediately, everyone in the courtroom, including the judge, chanted for the end of Ronald McDonald's reign of terror.
"Die, Ronald, die! Die, Ronald, die! Die, Ronald, die! Die, Ronald, die! DIE!"
Scott weakly saluted and whispered, "Long live McDonald Land!"
* * *
Scott heard Cowlawyer say, "He's coming to." Scott was afraid to open his eyes. But when he did, he saw not a roomful of cows but one human, a human doctor standing beside his bed.
"Where am I?" Scott asked.
"You've been in a three-day coma. Now you're in Tampa General Hospital."
"For what? Trying to kill myself in prison?"
"Is ‘prison' opening up a McDonald's in Wasp's Nest, Florida in 110 degree weather?"
"No, that's not prison. That's real fun but—wait a minute. You said I was in a coma?"
"For three days and counting. A combination of heat exhaustion and a heart attack has been known to do that."
"So I've never been in prison? Or in a courtroom for, for mass murder? And there was no McDonald's E-coli outbreak?"
"Not that I know of. But the day is young. Man, you must've had one crazy dream. That's all." They turned their attention to the nightstand's ringing phone. Scott answered it and was delighted to hear Sam Jefferson's voice.
"How are you doing, kid?"
"Great. Never felt better in my life!" Scott said as his doctor left the room.
"You're a good liar, Scott. Um, Scott. I've always looked at you as a second son to me who, who knows w-w-when—"
"Hold on. Whenever you stammer, I know something's eating at you."
"Yeah. This is hard for me to do because I look at you as a second son to me but—I'm afraid I have to let you go."
"You mean—as in fire me?"
"Yes. McDonald's can't have an unhealthy Ronald McDonald. I mean, there you were, one minute you're opening up a store, the next minute you're being shoved into an ambulance in your Ronald McDonald costume. And here we are, trying to pitch our product as healthy food that's good for you, and there you are, looking like death. And death is not good P.R. Are you still there, Scott?"
Scott wiped a tear from his face and said, "Physically, I'm still here. Mentally—is it my age, Sam? Is that it? I'm too old to play the part?"
"Not at all. People get exhausted by heat and get heart attacks at any age."
"Then, who could replace me?"
"'The Grimace.' You know, huh, my stepson, Joey."
"You mean your 20-year-old stepson. A 20-year-old who trumps my age by 38."
"Again. It's not his age, Scott. He's only moving up in the ranks."
"Yahvole, mein commandant," Scott said in an exaggerated German accent.
"And yahvole to you, Ronald. Time to hand in your size 45 shoes," Sam snarled, then hung up.
Scott stared at the ceiling, sobbed, and sang a version of his national anthem:
"I deserve a break today—so get up and get away—to McDonald's!"