"It is easier to imagine an end to the world than an end to capitalism." — Mark Fisher
At the nexus of the Fast Food Circle stands the Krusty Slaughterhouse. It is the architectural manifestation of absolute surplus value. From the outside, it resembles a crude wooden lobster trap, but the wood is perpetually weeping a substance chemically identical to used fry-oil. Inside, the grease traps have achieved a rudimentary, predatory sentience, occasionally snaring workers whose movements have been slowed by the weight of their own existential dread. The fry-cookers burn with a flame that is the exact, unblinking hex code of MS Paint red (#FF0000). These flames cast no shadows and produce no heat; instead, they emit a constant, low-frequency digital hum that vibrates through the teeth of anyone nearby. The menu consists entirely of 'recycled concepts'—memories of joy processed into square, grey patties and served with a side of absolute despair. The owner, Moar Krabs, is less a living being and more a manifestation of the ownership class. He vibrate...
From the lore of Spengbab's Grease Pit.