A return to an interrupted brunch

The reason we weren't worried about being "confined" in the little bus is because we weren't so much "confined" as we were concealed and covered. Because we knew what was coming next and how generally un-pretty and disembowel-y it was going to be. You see, very few have seen The Ronald (how he refers to himself) in his true form. Some of the League Of Disgruntled Restaurant Mascots were familiar and justifiably terrified. Those who weren't...learned quickly.
We had come up against The Ronald before on the rare, awful occasions that we have had to work with him, and let's just say that it's always an uneasy alliance. You know, since The Ronald is something that would give Pablo Escobar bed-wetting nightmares. Behold...

Good with the kids? Not so much.

Not at all, really.

Oh no. No, that's downright awful.

Still, he does have a way with the ladies...

But yeah, just generally a bad, bad guy.

So we sat back in relative safety and comfort and let him do to the League Of Disgruntled Restaurant Mascots what he generally does to any group of individuals unfortunate enough to cross his path...

Pictured: Jollibee and Little Chef, I think, although it's hard to be sure. Viscera is viscera.

He then grabbed Big Boy with the intent of using him as a human shield and escaping...

But with the help of some local law enforcement agents, we were able to subdue him...

And send him back to the maximum security holding facility from which we had temporarily sprung him...

Until we meet again, vile fiend.

We then turned Big Boy over to Adam Sandler (standard operating procedure).

Really, the whole thing was resolved so quickly that the maple syrup for our waffles was still warm when we returned to our brunching. Say what will you will about Ronald McDonald, that he's a raging hellspawn who promotes genocide via the promotion of poison-as-food, but he's very good at what he does.

THE END!

Directly After Brunch Was Interrupted

Truth be told, I was welcome to the diversion. (And I don't even like The International House of Pancakes. I went along with the venture because Jeff was obviously on a mission.)

Besides: Who was I to argue? The previous week had been one of nothing but crap-tastickness and I was still in mourning mode over The Thin White Duke's demise. Diversions of any kind were welcome.

Being accosted by the so-called League Of Disgruntled Restaurant Mascots? Even more diversion. So why not?

Of course, these knuckleheads didn't have anything on The Unbelievables. Headlocks? Full nelsons? And, if these guys knew anything about pushing Clark around, they'd've known that's a pet peeve of his. NO ONE physically pushes Clark around. That's taking your life in your hands.

A pretty close approximation of the minibus

The League Of Disgruntled Restaurant Mascots had us confined.

Confined* to the minibus, I drummed up conversation:

"You know," I began, "Burger King's mascot? The King? He's not a clown ..."

"Shut up! Sure he is! Because he's a joke to us!" Cookie snapped back. I'd obviously pushed a button.

I formed a slow smile and Clark stifled a chuckle.

We arrived at some nondescript building in the middle of an equally nondescript industrial park and Jollibee ground the minibus to a halt. The back doors opened and we got out. We were shuttled through a door, down a couple hallways and into a cavernous, high-ceilinged open space filled with boxes and crates.

Another close approximation:

The League Of Disgruntled Restaurant Mascots' warehouse.

"Big Boy! We're here!" Der Wienerdog barked, a little too eagerly.

"Be right there" came a response.

Down a corridor behind some crates we saw what looked to be a plate with a double-deck burger rise. Then, sure enough, out popped The Big Boy, burger aloft in one hand, the other on his suspender strap.

That devious look. Unsettling ... isn't it?

He was stocky, thick. He walked funny. Those disarming, doll-like eyes shifted uncomfortably from Clark to Jeff to me and back again as he approached. And when he spoke that smirky smile never left his puss. His lips never parted. Nothing but that disarming smile. His eyebrows furrowed at us, though.

"Well, well, well ... the vaunted, globe-trotting Unbelievables. In the flesh at last ...

I perked up: "Is this going to take long? The three of us were looking forward to a second breakfast - brunch, actually - when your goon squad interrupted it ..."

"Quiet, fool! You three have no idea what's in store for you!"

"And what would that be?" Jeff asked.

The Big Boy kept smiling. "The crates and boxes behind me? They contain costumes of every size and shape and color to rile the imagination. I've picked some special ones specifically for you. Clown costumes, to be exact. You three? You're now my very own personal clown contingent!"

Clark chimed in. "But ... I thought you guys hated clowns? That's what 'Dork QueenerDawg' told us earlier ..."

"Der Wienerdog!" Der Wienerdog corrected loudly.

The Big Boy continued. "Ah ... then, you see the irony! Yes, we hate clowns with a passion! And you, the three of you, will be paraded in the streets to fulfill our every whim, subject to our bidding 24/7, dressed as clowns! Bwah-ha-ha ... BWAAAAH-HAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ... !!!"

The three of us looked at each other knowingly.

"Now?" Clark asked.

"Do it." Jeff and I said in unison.

Unbeknownst to The Big Boy and his contingent, Clark pressed a secret button in his crocheted sweatpants. Inwardly, I winced a little knowing what was coming.

But ... it was necessary. I steeled my nerves.

With The Big Boy still chuckling, the doors behind us flew open, banged against the wall noisily ... and in bound The League Of Disgruntled Restaurant Mascots' absolute worst nightmare:

"HIGH, GUYS!" blurted Ronald McDonald cheerfully.

*Confined in the vehicle, I gave Jeff and Clark a wink to play along; they were privy and knew The League had nothing on us. And when I say "confined" it was really "confined, such that it was" because escape, as I'm sure all our readers know, would have been a cakewalk.