Dixy Chicken

«Uggghhh… where am I? And what is that awful smell? Why is it everything green, and foggy? And where have all my friends gone?»
It’s been four hours now since I visited Dixy Chicken. I’d ordered a sizzler chicken burger, but either it was deep-​fried in marshwater, or the burger was over a hundred years old; either way, my guts, my friends and now my wallpaper is beginning to pay the price.
As I carefully reattach the skin peeling from my fingers to write this review I can remember the great (but slightly cheap) taste of the deep-​fried burger, hash brown and bread bap. The bun did exactly what it was supposed to (it deteriorated when I picked it up) and the mayonnaise tasted like it should (cheap, like it was from a wholesaler’s finest value range). The service was informal (read: «scarce» — it took several minutes for the guy behind the counter to acknowledge me, despite the fact he was standing within three feet of me), the interior was clean (the polar opposite of the air in my nearby proximity) and I ordered, paid, got my Zinger Intestine-​Obliterator Tower, and went to my car to secretly eat it.
Fast forward to four hours later and I’m wondering how much febreeze I have under the sink. Will this smell ever come out of my clothes and car upholstery? Will my kids and my friends ever forgive me – nay, will they still be alive despite the putrid oxygen-​depleted atmosphere that now orbits my waistband? Why do I feel so unhappy, in so much abdominal pain, and why does nobody want to talk to me for more than a few seconds?
Only time will tell. However, one thing’s for sure; I’ve been here twice now, and am fairly confident that three will *not* be the magic number.