★★☆☆☆ A CULINARY APOCALYPSE

VOLITION – You shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake. Turn back.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – No, no, stay. Look at that neon sign, bleeding meat-light into the fog. It wants you.

SHIVERS – The wind carries whispers of roast beef, long dead but preserved in sodium sacrament. The building hums with the ghosts of a thousand forgotten lunches.

LOGIC – Arby’s is a fast-food establishment specializing in thinly sliced, processed meats served in various configurations of bread and cheese. Allegedly.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Your stomach groans. It remembers last time. It warns you.

ENCYCLOPEDIA – Founded in 1964, Arby’s has endured decades of culinary warfare, emerging as a purveyor of “meat” products that defy both nature and the Geneva Conventions. Their signature “Horsey Sauce” is either a tangy delight or a chemical weapon; debate rages.

RHETORIC – “We Have the Meats!” A bold claim. A legally dubious claim.

INTERFACING – The counter is sticky. The cashier’s eyes are hollow. The menu flickers like a dying broadcast from a better world.

EMPATHY – The man beside you weeps silently into his Beef ‘n Cheddar. You understand.

HALF LIGHT – Something moves in the kitchen. It’s not human.

SUGGESTION – Order the curly fries. They are the least cursed item here.

ENDURANCE – You survive the meal. Barely. The meat sits in your gut like a leaden prophecy.

CONCLUSION – Arby’s is a monument to mankind’s hubris. A temple of grease and regret. You will return.

INLAND EMPIRE – In the reflection of the napkin dispenser, you see the face of your father. He is disappointed. But he, too, once knew the siren call of the Jamocha Shake.