He'll Make His Own

"Hello, welcome to Wendy's. What can I get for you?" asked the teen behind the counter.

"Ahem," said Craig, clearing his throat officiously. "I will have a foil-lined polymer space enclosure membrane filled to the brim with only the finest of Cheetos, their orange cheesesque flavor particulate spread most evenly, my good sir," he said in that aloof voice of his. "And make it snappy, for I have been paid handsomely by shadowy parties to be in proximity to their enemies for some reason, and I have a long list to get through!" he added, leaning forward conspiratorially and bonking his head on the cash register.

There followed a lengthy period where nobody quite knew what to say or how to stand while Craig slapped furiously and ineffectually at the back of the register.

"Have that foul machine drawn and quartered," Craig wheezed, wiping the sweat from his brow and flicking it into the deep fryer.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't serve Cheetos here. Could I interest you, perhaps, in an order of our delicious fries? They're roughly the same shape and color," the teenager said, gesturing to the menu because he mistakenly thought Craig could read.

"WhUUUUUUUUUt?" Craig howled. "Flabbergastery and plimshaw!" he howled further. "Doesn't that just beat all! Well, my friend, you have made a powerful enemy, which makes my calling you 'friend' a moment ago seem all the more sinister, I expect. I shall take my leave of this place permanently, and I will never come back! Nor shall I return! I will make my own Cheetos, thank you very much. And they will be of unfathomably higher quality than the ones you don't sell!"

With that, he swirled his cape about his shoulders, chased it down, picked it up and donned it, fastened it this time, and swirled it again. He left the building in a huff and failed in all endeavors.

The teenager checked the wall clock.

"Yep. 7:30. Right on time."