Gone Fishin' (at Arby's)

I should've known something was wrong from the minute we approached the Arby's located in Paola, Kansas (Where? Don't ask, don't tell.). The ominous marquee stood tall against the cloudy skies, an eerie arbiter of an ill wind blowing our way. The sign--more of a threat--read, "Fish is back." Short, ominous, and sharp like a knife.

I didn't want to go to Arby's for lunch, rallied against it. But my daughter insisted, especially since she was gung-ho to try their gyros.

"Fine," I said in my best possible hissy-fit manner with arms crossed and brow thoroughly furrowed. "But I'm not gonna like it. Humph."

I knew this to be the case. I never have, never will like Arby's. Inexplicably my wife loves it. I dunno. Can you really truly trust a place that serves something called "Horsey Sauce." Brrr. (Now I know where all of those broken-legged race horses end up.)

My daughter pulled up to the drive-thru menu. I leaned across to get a better gander. Okay, something called a King's Hawaiian Chicken Bacon (aka, Heart Attack in a Greasy Bag) sandwich looked passable, so I chose that. 

"Squawk, conk, glonk, degga-wat-hey," the speaker box blared after we'd placed the order. I shrugged, nodded to my daughter. Whatever the Arby's employee had said probably didn't matter. Surely, they couldn't mess up that order, right? I mean, right?

Uncertain, my daughter said, "Okay" and we pulled forward. Where we waited. And waited.

A deceptively cheery employee cranked open the window, her smile a flimsy cover for secret evil, leaned out and said, "We've got to grill some fish, so it'll be another minute, okay?"

My daughter, polite and nice, smiled and said, "Okay."

The Arby's troll withdrew back into her secret cavern, all the while plotting against me. (I mean it's not really considered paranoia if Arby's is truly out to get me, right?)

I considered what had just happened. Finally, I asked my daughter, "Why do we have to wait for them to grill fish?"

She stared at me. Blinked. Said, "Good point. Neither of us ordered fish. I just kinda went with it." Then she laughed, man, did she laugh. Along with all of the Arby's employees inside no doubt.

Finally, the sack of doom was thrust through the window. We drove back to my daughter's house, her laughing all the way. "What if they gave you a fish sandwich, Dad? Their fish is the worst. Do you want to check it and go back?"

"Oh, hell no!" I'd had enough Arby's humiliation for one day. Sure enough when I opened my "prize catch," a heaping portion of fried (not grilled, even) fish stared up at me. I felt like Charlie Brown at Halloween.

Heed my tale, oh hungry travelers, and avoid the siren call of Arby's threatening sign, "Fish is back." Because, clearly, they left off the most important part of the message: "...and we don't care if you order it or not, because it's what you're going to get."

You'll find a whopper amount of big fish stories in my horror short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley (although, true, none of them are quite as horrifying as our nightmarish excursion into the dreaded landscape of Arby's; thar be rough seas ahead matey, arrrrrr.)