Random Headcanon: Ronald McDonald regenerates when killed, horror movie monster style, but the Burger King’s immortality is dependent on serial reincarnation. That’s why the latter tends to disappear from the public eye for a couple of decades every now and then; when Ronald loses a fight in their eternal struggle for dominion over all fast food, he’s fine in like a week, but when the King goes down, he needs to wait for his reincarnation to grow up.
(Though this would seem to give Ronald an insurmountable advantage, it’s less decisive than you’d think, because Ronald is actually kind of terrible in a fight. The knowledge that he only needs to win once makes him sloppy.)
Quite so. The Colonel is older than Ronald, and even the King, but his reach is bound by the fact that he can’t affect the material world on his own - he’s strictly limited by the capabilities of his current corporeal host. Like all elder ghosts, however, he can cast a mean curse, so it’s best to tread carefully in his court.
Wendy’s a tough one to pin down. Once a mere figurehead empress, she’s taken a more active hand in the politics of the Fast Food Wars since her father’s mysterious disappearance scarcely a decade past. Nobody’s quite sure what her deal is; to all appearances, she’s a perfectly ordinary fourteen-year-old girl - but she’s been fourteen for a long, long time.
Collecting a variety of requests:
The Taco Bell Chihuahua is gone. In her hubris, she challenged the Colonel to single combat, who unhinged his jaw like a snake and swallowed her whole. Nobody’s quite prepared to say she’s dead, since the powers of the Fast Food Wars have been known to come back from worse, but it’s been fifteen years now, and few expect her return.
The Five are a sinister cabal who eschew personal names and identities, being known only by their collective title. The secret to their power is that they’re actually a telepathic hive-mind; though their members are technically mortal, the collective itself can recover from individual losses as long as at least one of them survives.
Despite its icy clime, the Dairy Queen’s kingdom flows with milk and honey. Her subjects are well-fed and happy and want for nothing - but there’s always something brittle about their smiles. In truth, beneath her jolly facade, their glorious sorcerer-queen’s heart is as cold as her realm: all shall love her and despair.
The Caesar is an anomaly in the Fast Food Wars: a mortal who contends with gods. What he lacks in personal prowess, he makes up for with his vast armies and spy networks. The title is non-hereditary; the current Caesar ascended to the throne in the traditional fashion: by literally stabbing his predecessor in the back.
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick - though the Fast Food Wars’ fields are bestrode by giants, all know to fear the Giant-Slayer. Cursed by the Old Gods to the form of a child’s toy for some forgotten jape, Jack rules still from his castle in the clouds. A wildcard in the Wars, he’s as likely to decimate his own realm in a fit of pique as he is to march against others.
It has latterly been revealed that the previous Caesar survived his assassination, making his way in secret to the frozen lands, where he became vassal - and, some whisper, consort - to the Dairy Queen. The mark of his successor’s poisoned spear remains upon him, staining his skin a sickly ocher, and for this he’s known as Orange Julius.
Make a campaign world based around the lore of The Fast Food Wars.
This is the best Demolition Man prequel fic I’ve ever read.
the subway isn’t a person, as far as anyone can tell. it’s a strange underground realm filled with jaunty steampunk citizens. but none of the others dare set foot there. it neither attacks nor defends. it simply runs on time.
The siren doesn’t bother to hide - but far too few recognize her state of being. Far too many mistake her for a simple mermaid - they somehow overlook the serrated teeth hidden behind her smile, the razor-sharp, arrow-shaped scales she wears in triumphant exaltation. Her adherents form meek lines, desperate for the bounty she bestows upon her worshipers - helpless to the same song that has drawn so many sailors to their doom.
Her very name is a warning of obsession - I’ll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway
Maelstrom, and round perdition’s flames before I give him up - but do they listen? Does anybody listen? Anyone at all?
We know what lurks in the darkest depths of the ocean - terror, the unknown, that unknowable. She came without warning; no whispers heralded her coming, and we were desperate for the safe-haven she promised us. She promised us relief. She promised us - a moment of surcease. A moment safe from the cold, a moment we could warm our hands and brace ourselves against the dawn.
Now she is everywhere. She had made herself indispensable; her face smiles at us from every window, every cup and bag and product, and we cannot resist.
The Starbuck - for there is only one, only one siren, the same who sang to Odysseus and sang countless ships to their doom - has come, and the nations of the earth tremble before her.