REMEMBER THE ARCHEOLOGIST WHO CUT HIS FACE WITH A RAZOR WHILE SHAVING AND HIS DOG LICKED ON THE BIT OF BLOODY FLOOR?

That dog got sick later and had to be taken to a vet, which turned out to be the same doctor who cured the meercat specialist’s case of tapeworms.

It’s a small world.

And since the doctor was very cross, a strange case of slippery scalpels seemed to target the dog, who had to then stay in the hospital for a week.

That archeologist had then woken up on a rainy morning, suddenly feeling extremely depressed without his dog and the sudden revelation that his life’s work was as important as dirt. And that man decided to go to McDonalds so he wouldn’t need to cook his own food.

This would have continued for several days, if the nearest McDonalds had not had a peculiar sign taped to the “M”.

The archeologist stood in front of McDonalds, staring at the sign that looked as if was written on a very large, stiff piece of paper. On it, was written:

“It is advisable that Sodriew should not come to this fuel station in the next five galactic days, as I will be landing very soon and do not wish to hurt anyone.

It is also advisable that Sodriew should not be anywhere near this building, for you will see something very odd and would almost definitely be put in a mental institution for life.

I hope you have a nice day, and that my drone did a good job of taping.”

The archeologist stopped. He read the sign again, and his frown only arched lower. He was an archeologist, an educated person. He should know what this sign meant. But he didn’t. He was utterly at lost.

Fuel station? Was that supposed to be a gas station? But the closest gas station was half a mile away. McDonalds wasn’t a gas station.

Five galactic days? What the hell was that? 120 hours? But how long was one galactic day? Was there even a galactic time zone? How many earth days was a galactic day?

Who would be landing very soon? And how? Like a plane? Why would a plane intentionally crash into McDonalds? And why would they put up a sign to convey their meaning? And what was the sign made of anyway? It certainly had to be a very sturdy piece of paper, if it was made of paper at all.

And was the part about mental institutions a warning? Or was it a threat? The said almost definitely. Why would anyone be put in a mental institution for being near McDonalds in five galactic days—however long that was.

Also, how in the world did a drone tape something? And why drones?

Nothing about the sign made sense whatsoever.

The archeologist also felt insulted somehow, perhaps because he had been referred to as a ‘Sodriew,’ whatever that was. However, he felt no reason to be insulted by this title, even though it still irked him. What did sodriew remind him of?

The archeologist shook his head. What he should really be wondering about is how on earth the sign got on the M, and also if McDonalds still served breakfast at eleven fifty. The archeologist pushed open the front door, noting happily that the display still offered hot cakes.

There was only one other person in line, who was ordering a latte on the go, but had a little trouble finding her money. All the seats, however, had been taken, and the loud chatter easily became meaningless white noise.

Finally, the woman found her purse, and snatched the latte from the counter, as if she should have gotten it without paying anyway. The archeologist, whose name was Timothy, stepped up to the counter and ordered two hash browns and a hot cake breakfast.

“Er, excuse me,” Timothy said at last, “I saw a sign outside, on the big ‘M’. I was wondering what it meant.”

“Sign.” The counter boy, a pimple-faced teenage, repeated rather stupidly.

“Um, yes, The sign was rather, I mean, it was confusing,” Timothy stumbled on, “it said something about not coming here or—”

“We only have one sign,” the boy said, “and it says ‘we are now hiring’. We have always been hiring since the moment this McDonalds opened.”

“I-I meant the other sign. The one on the big M, I mean.”

“We only have one sign.” The boy was obviously irritated.

“Er—”

“Here.” The boy pushed a brown paper bag at Timothy. “Have a nice day.”

Timothy, looking very confused, took the bag and stepped outside. He walked back to where he once stood, and looked up.

The sign was still there.

So he hadn’t imagined it. Then why in the world was it there? And why didn’t anyone else see it?

The answer didn’t take long to find. A woman walked out of McDonalds, past Timothy, her head never lifting up. Her eyes were glued to the smartphone, scrolling down the screen with a long pink fingernail.

Timothy thought it was rather ironic that he, an archeologist whose job was to look down at the dirt, was the only person who looked up and saw the peculiar sign.

Timothy still had a week before his dog would be back. And in this particular week, he hadn’t much else to do. This mystery sign promised that something would happen in the next five days. Besides, Timothy needed something to take his mind off of depressing thoughts. With a renewed sense of purpose he strolled back into McDonalds.

The counter boy was not happy.

“Er, I have another question about the sign—”

“There is only one sign. That is the hiring sign.”

“I quite understand. I understand that one really well. I just went outside to read it.”

“Goodbye.”

“Oh, but I thought I’d like a job here.”

The boy was clearly startled. “Job?” he repeated.

“Yes, that seems right.”

“No. You do not want a job here.”

“Oh, I’d like it very much, on the contrary. I heard this McDonalds runs 24/7. I’d like the graveyard shift, if it’s open.” Timothy had chosen this shift carefully, as most crimes such as putting signs on buildings always seemed to occur at night. If it had occurred during the day, someone would have seen it, if only to take a picture and put it on their instapound (or was it gram?) or whatever they were into these days. Of course the sign did say the drone was the one that taped the sign up.

Oh well. Drones were pretty interesting anyway.

“Er, Boss!” the boy yelled.

A fat woman bustled out. “Yeah?”

“This man here says he wants a job. Graveyard shift.”

The woman squinted. Timothy, dressed in a nice gray blazer, an ironed shirt, and a pair of suede loafers, was evidently not a McDonalds worker. “Yer mocking us, eh?”

“No, I-I-I don’t mean that at all, madam,” Timothy stammered. “I-I-I just need a few bucks in my pocket, and I can only do that during the night. You know, paying student loans.”

The manager looked amused. “Ya won’t be paying back much of your students loans if you keep buying clothes like that.”

“Oh, these?” Timothy pinched his jacket, “got this at a thrift store. It the only clean thing I have at the moment.”

The woman looked satisfied with this hastily concocted lie. “Do you know what to do?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s see it then,” the woman commanded.

Timothy cleared his throat. “Hello, Madam, your order please?”

“Fifty packets of ketchup.”

“Very good. It should be with you shortly. Please help yourself to this other counter to pick up your food. Thank you!” Timothy was sure that no one in McDonalds spoke this politely, but Timothy was a polite man and it was hard to break the habit. At least, for the time being. Timothy had a strange suspicion that working graveyard shift for five days would easily change that.

“Good enough for me. Your hired. Come here at eleven thirty.” The woman thrust a dirty, striped uniform into Timothy’s arms, without mentioning salary. The woman left.

Timothy stared at the gross bundle of clothes, gulped, then turned to leave.

“You really don’t want to work here,” the boy said.

But Timothy hadn’t heard.