'Ten Minutes Late for Reality' by Lou Morris (c) 1988, 1989, 1991, 2002, 2015. Twenty-eight:

Twenty-eight:

   "An atom is very, very, very, very, very, very, very,
very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very,
very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very,
very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very,
very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very small."

                                 - A fifty word middle
school science report on
the atom by Lou Morris
(for which he received,
surprisingly, a passing
grade).


   "Welcome to McWendy's!  Can I take your order, please?"
chirped the order box by the drive-thru window lane.
   "Yeah," gurgled a blond haired teen, balding slightly at
eighteen, from within his beloved car--a nearly perfect,
black and yellow 1970 Oldsmobile 4-4-2.  "Gimmie a Whopper
and--"
   "Ha, ha," said the girlish voice from the box.  "Listen
you stupid generic character, you damn well know that we
don't have Whoppers!  Now stop with the cliche bullshit and
make your god damn order!"
   Touchy! Paul, the blonde, thought.  "Sorry.  Uh, gimmie
a--a hamburger and a--a cola."
   At that moment, Kill-M-All chose not to appear five feet
in the air above Paul's black and yellow 4-4-2, but since he
had no choice in the matter, he appeared anyway.  Then he
fell.
   Crunch!
   "Wha!" Paul yelled.
   "Wha!" Kill-M-All replied, trying to get up from the
Kill-M-All shaped ravine in Paul's waxed, polished, and now
very dented hood.  His studded armor scratched and scraped
the shinny paint from the car.
   "Stop crying; we've got hamburgers," the box interrupted.  
"Will that be all?"
   "Who are you?!" Paul screamed at the warrior standing on
his hood, holding a sword.
   "Cindy Very," the box replied calmly.  "Why?"
   Paul leaned on his horn, hoping to scare the weirdo away.
   Hooooooonk!
   Kill-M-All held his ears.  Definitely worse than a
shrieker's wail, he thought.  What is going on?  Where am I?  
And what about all of that dragon's gold?!!!
   A shrieker, by the way, is a singing fungus that has only
one modern equivalent--Joan Collins singing polka.
   "My car!  My hood!  My God!!" Paul screamed, then leaned
on the horn again.
   Hoooo--
   Kill-M-All took his magical sword and stabbed at the
source of the terrible noise.
   --ooklchtz.
   He pulled his sword back out of the hood; pieces of
broken horn fell all over the parking lot underneath the car.
   Paul, not wanting to be the next victim of the warrior's
very sharp sword, slammed the car's transmission into reverse
and floored it.
   Screech!
   White smoke poured from the back of the 4-4-2.  The car
lurched backwards, tossing Kill-M-All to the grass beside the
menu-board.
   Zoom!
   In reverse, the 4-4-2 screamed out of the drive-in and
into a car coming into the drive-in.
   --Crunch!Smash!Crash!
   Paul, slightly unhurt, gawked behind him then cried.  The
other car was one of Cassville's finest--a shinny new police
cruiser.
   Not stopping to watch an irresponsible teenage receive a
lifetime supply of reckless driving tickets, Kill-M-All
hurried into the big building beside the talking box.  He
didn't know what was going on, but what else was new?  
Compared to an ice dragon, a metal noise making machine was
quite believable.


   Since it was just a few minutes into lunchtime, this
McWendy's, located a mile down the road from Death Adventure,
was really, really packed with people.  Mostly tourists.
   "May I help you?" Cindy asked the next person in line.
   "Yes.  Please," an elderly Japanese tourist spoke,
heaving a few archaic tape recorders off his chest and out of
his way.  He looked to the marquee for advice.
   Cindy frowned.  This job isn't much better than my last
one, she thought.  Why me?  "Yes?" she asked, glancing back
for a second to see if there were any customers waiting on
the drive-thru line.  None.
   "Yes," the tape recorder wielding tourist replied.  
"Chicken nugget--six," he said.
   "Chicken nugget--six," he added.
   "Chicken nugget--six," he added again.
   "Chicken nugget--six," he added after that.
   "Chicken nugget--six," he finished.
   Cindy frowned deeper, then gleamed, "Oh, you mean five,
six piece chicken nuggets."
   "No."  The elderly Japanese tourist shook his head.  
"Chicken nugget--six," he said.
   "Chicken nugget--six," he added.
   "Chicken nugget--six," he added again.
   Cindy let her head fall to the counter, then she let her
drool wash away various bits of hamburger condiments.  Why
me?
   Luckily, before she went brain-dead, Kill-M-All burst
through the side doors, long sword in hand.
   Everyone paused in their tracks--fries in hand, burgers
in mouth--and stared blankly at Kill-M-All.
   Kill-M-All panted.  This is not good, he thought.  He
slowly inched backwards towards the door.  Instead, he backed
into a six foot plastic persona of Ronald McWendy.
   He yelped, turned, and sliced.
   Blounck!
   The hollow plastic head fell to the greasy floor with a
hollow clunk.  It lopsidedly rolled around, landing to a halt
against the small foot of a little boy standing on line with
his mother.
   The child looked down upon the head as a lone tear rolled
from his watery eyes down over his red cheek.  With a wipe of
his hand, the tear was gone, only to be replaced by a stream
of them.
   "You killed Ronald," the little toddler sniffed as his
mother eyed Kill-M-All with a severe case of distaste.