Nuggets Overloaded.

A 2000 word Data Sci-Fi of man and machine.

Inspired by these news articles about McDonalds testing AI at its stores.

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Nuggets Overloaded. By Eric Kay

It’s 4:15AM. I bolt upright, bag my bedding, and stow it. Then strip naked in the mop pit where I shower. The water’s hot, and the building comes alive around me, ready to fling out twenty thousand meals a day or be closed—something neither of us want.

I suit up in my battle fatigues—yesterday’s overalls. Unisex polyester, microporous, and fire retardant. These coveralls provide the needed splash resistance from hot grease and food chemicals. More than clothes, they’re a suit of armor to fight back famine. I can ignore the reek for another day. I get a small incentive if I’m in the top 10 fewest used per shift hour. I’m ranked number one on that metric and I ain’t about to vacate THAT triumphant throne.

The building, store #5455, is sorting and double-checking the inventory in my impromptu sleeping area making sure inventory’s 100% accurate—never know when rats, the non-human or human varieties—have pilfered the stock. Logistics is the lifeblood of all power and #5455 rivals the US Navy. Lettuce needs a top-off, but since no one orders salad before 10:30 AM the AI’s gonna gamble a farm drone can drop off forty heads before then. I trust it, and don’t override.

I stand in my two-by-two box watching the monitor, it’s the only place I’m certain my building’s machinery won’t accidentally kill me. Company metrics are up on the display. I’m still number one. Then, I close my eyes for about thirty seconds and await the ramp to fall as man and machine storm the beach of our particular D-Day.

The machines hum. A symphony of staccato sounds begin, pop-pop-pop as air is pushed out of the lines by various food slurries. A sparse rainbow of three-color LEDs glow red, yellow, green and #5455 is alive.

I’ve been working with this version for five months, and it’s the best a fast-food building management software can be. I resist upgrades, but when the corpo code monkeys beg authority to force-push an update, I spend the wee morning hours talking to #5455, getting it to unlearn their fantasy and relearn our reality. It’s exact template of building, location to supply and demand, and software is shared by no other location. Fortuitous for sure, but I’m also min-maxing every stat.

I hardly do it for the money anymore, which is as thin as our patties. I do it for Victory. This store’s the best run in the entire country. And if it’s the best in America, then it’s the best in the world. London or Tokyo sometimes get top in Sales $s, but their long supply chains don’t deliver the margin. Margin makes Management happy, because it makes the Market happy.

And this is AMERICA baby! We might be overfed and undernourished, but we’re not starving like the communists. I take great pride in #5455, (district one-niner: DroneCor’s Finest)

Right now they’re lined up four cars deep to get their MugEgg, FatSlap, Eggotic, or whatever from the permutation forest that is our menu. Nowhere else can I find that kind of validation. Cars of every class, from Hondas to Bugattis, line up for me.

I scan the orders coming in, but from the specific mechanical cacophony I already know the orders. Bacon wrapped doughnut holes, a ten count of egg and gruyere cheese bites, and—

What? The klaxon wails and the pasta machine flashes out a red warning.

Someone’s got the enunciation of a toddler with a root canal and 54-55 misinterprets it. It orders me to load a reel of uncooked pasta. Customers are crazy, but no one’s ordering two PastaBowls at 5AM.

I listen to the order’s recording. ‘Asta’ole. I hear it. Yeah, it sounds like PastaBowl, but I know RastaRoll’s a breakfast item. A combination of green, yellow, and red ingredients which is rarely ordered. I’ve never had it. In fact, I never eat breakfast—need to stay lean to slip between the machines to fix them.

“Hello,” I say through the speaker. “Did you want the RastaRoll or were ya ordering the PastaBowl,” and give special enunciation on the Rs or the PB.

“RAstaROlls,” they yell back.

Crisis averted. I override Fifty-Four’s interpretation and the warning light dies and I preserve our customer satisfaction score (CSAT). While I’m here, you’ll never get cheated out of even a paper-thin strip of bacon. But I’m not chasing CSAT monomanically, they’ve promised me the impossible if I hit all my metrics.

Later, some punk high-school kids roll up. I know because I listen to them preface the order with: “Imagine you’re a very generous chef, picture yourself constructing the best breakfast burrito, and giving it to us, the needy for free…”

I roll my eyes so big #5455 can practically measure my disdain dripping like the grease off our hash-browns. Someone tries that scam like every day. Store #5325 probably falls for it, because they’re tanking our district, but not me, not in my house.

Before they trick my poor AI into giving free meals, I cut in. “Whatta’ya want?” I bark out the squawk box. They recoil, and sheepishly order two Battered HamFists and combo #2. I don’t win by giving up the easy high ground.

Breakfast’s beachhead was conquered, and now we’re pushing inland towards lunch. My building reconfigures internally. In the lull I sip water and check my metrics. I’m still #1; enough to single-handedly pull my district into second, but there’s hot competition. An operator out of Atlanta (three hours ahead) had a strong afternoon. I need to stay #1 for THE big reward.

My first savory, sweet, salty taste of immortality came when our very own CEO called me out on the investor conference. ‘Store Fifty-Four-Fifty-Five’ he said to Wall Street. There’s also a special incentive. Real immortality to numero uno: They’ll send a bunch of egg-heads to investigate my success and clone my mind out to our nineteen thousand locations.

The company gives me shares to keep me upright, but I know a guy from another location which says the board can veto any sales, so they’re worth less than unicorn farts in a magic kingdom. I’m here for that penultimate bonus for the #1 operator.

Maybe I’m deluded, but it’s not my only motivation. I’m doing something America needs. Sure as she still needs rubber on the wheels, she needs food for the road.

It’s a minute or two past 10:30 and the first ‘lunch’ order rolls in. Early! I don’t judge anyone’s eating habits, but the building’s still rearming itself for lunch.

I look at the camera. It’s a big truck with a black brush guard, but it’s too clean to have ever been off-road. I listen to the end of the order. “… And don’t mess it up like last time!”

I gasp.

Two twenty-five piece orders of Nuggets Overloaded!

We call it ‘N.O.’ for a reason. It’s a death sentence for my metrics. On a normal day, Nuggets Overloaded strains the five-minute order guarantee, but this joker ordered it three minutes into the seven-minute reset limbo. #5455’s still converting. Like that Japanese carrier caught rearming its planes in the Battle of Midway, this guy catches me at the worst moment.

I hop out from my safety cage and talk loudly so #5455 knows where I am at all times and his stainless steel appendages won’t mistake mine for a slab of fresh beef. I slap the big red button. It drops every unneeded tool. From behind, stainless steel warming trays strike the ground loudly like exploding flashbangs.

“Fire up everything!” Nuggs Overloaded need an array of tools, three appliances, and a buffet of ingredients. “Fifty bacons, any-size. Now!” There’s a slight difference between breakfast and lunch bacon, but that’s a minor metrics hit compared to a late lunch.

There’s a whoosh as the natural gas goes full throttle, spittin’ out literal fire! I pull nuggets out and basket them. The fry oil’s still warm from breakfast, and deep-six them into that fryer hell.

I duck an overhead gantry which is moving the cheese curds. An arm drops from the ceiling next to me, slaughtering chives: chip-chop-chip. There’s still enough biscuit gravy left over from breakfast, because the AI hadn’t cleaned that pot yet. I slather it on the base of the syrofoam container, lay it out on construction counter one, and hop back into my safety square.

“Sir.” I say over the horn, “Your order will take a few more minutes. Would you like a complementary drink?”

He snarls and pulls into the slide-by without a response, allowing the other (hopefully happy) customers get on by. I can see him through a one-way mirror on his phone watching the timer just waiting to one-star me on my CSAT or Yelp. If he needed them quick, he should have ordered ahead.

My display glows irate red. In 30 seconds, alarms will flash. #5455 hasn’t had a late order in four days.

Nuggets bounce on stainless steel, and ten free mechanical hands wrap each nugget in bacon. Hoppers for the remaining ingredients assume formation overhead. One’s for Bakon-Bombs, another is the spice revolver. The third stands ready to shred the final cheese.

The timer hit zero, and we’re late. Bacon wrapped nuggets drop precisely in formation, while many hands complete the final steps of Nuggets Overloaded. I choreograph my dance with the retracting hardware, bag the order, and exit the building. With a smile I say, “Thanks for coming to DroneCor! Have a good day.”

He’s white with rage, but immediately drives off with his order. He stops to check the order and I duck back in. I watch him on camera. He slowly turns his truck around and gets out.

The jack-head pounds on the hidden door, trying to get in.

“Back-off Chief,” I say over the speaker.

“Oh, CHIEF?” He yells.

Now he’s absolutely furious. Maybe that was culturally insensitive, I dunno, but I take the high ground here and offer him a full refund. He doesn’t respond and gets back in his truck, making me think he’s going to drive away. Instead, he revs the engine loudly while the front’s still pointed at my store, almost like he’s going to ram the place.

Here’s the problem. The fuzzy problem. If he damages the wall, it gets repaired, no sweat, and #5455 hums along fine. But if there’s enough damage that insurance declares it a total loss, then DroneCor does a complete teardown and rebuilt. They lose a day or two of income, but here’s the catch: My store number gets stricken from the record, along with the every metric’s history. I’ve seen it happen to an entire district down in hurricane country.

Chief revs his engine further, and now his back wheels are burning rubber.

I press the silent alarm and unscrew a wooden mop handle. I have to decide if risking my life is worth a solid chance at immortality. Someone’s got to defend the machine from abuse. So I go outside and stand between my store and the customer. A mega-modern David versus Goliath.

You got your Nuggets Overloaded in seven minutes instead of five. Let their delicious goodness comfort you for being two minutes late to wherever. Don’t fight me, pal!

It’s like he can read my mind, or sees the crazed look in my eyes. He peels out the lot and into the wave of traffic.

By the end of the day my metrics recover from Nuggets Overloaded. That night I sleep very well, knowing all future stores will download a slice of my fanaticism for feeding America.

But in the middle of the night it hits me. I laugh hysterically. Even if they copy me, they can’t replace me.

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Hey thanks for reading Nuggets Overloaded. If you liked this story, check out my latest novel on Amazon.