A letter from the front lines of the 'Rick and Morty' McDonald's sauce war

My Dearest Abigail,

It has been long since I had an opportunity of writing to you, and I gladly avail myself of the present opportunity. As I sit and toil in the wick'd heat at the local McDonald’s waiting for my precious Ricky and Morty sauce, I find joy in the mem’ries of you. I am on the front lines of the cause now, and I don’t imagine I will find myself venturing homeward for quite some time…

Do not weep for me, my sweet Abigail! For the cause is important, as you know, and we all here have determined we are willing to do whatever for this sauce, even if it means our death.

It is now hour nine of this war. We grow tired and weak…subsisting off of only nuggets and using their grossly inferior tangy barbecue sauce. O, the horror. The wretched horror. I will spare you the details of the taste, as I’ve only a certain amount of parchment on which to write to you.

When I saw Rick, the cartoon character whom is impossible to identify with unless you are a sociopath, gush over the ancient Szechuan sauce, I knew I must taste this sweet nectar myself. Everyone here agrees.

Our chants of “We want sauce! We want sauce!” are slowly but surely demoralizing our enemy, the dreaded McDonald’s employee, who purposefully withholds this precious sauce for themselves. The Selfish Fools! They have no idea of our resolve.

We will not leave until we claim our sauce. And if they don’t provide? We will simply boycott their restaurants, bankrupting them in the process. Ha…I am laughing. Already, nine of us have agreed to never eat at McDonald’s again. They have no idea what they’re up against, my dear Abigail! We will not break!

The news is not all bad from here. I’ve made a friend! His name is Zack and he is a brave soldier of the cause. The past hour fifty-nine I have spent o’er by his side saying such classic quotes as “I Am Pickle Rick” and the like. It is a delight, my sweet sweet Abigail. I hope some day you and him will meet. Tho…that day will be far from now. You must understand.

It is getting late. I am writing this to you under the dim light of Zack’s 1997 Honda CR-V ceiling light. We do not know how much longer we will be here, but we are ready to fight tooth and nail for what is ours by right.

I hope to see you soon, my darling. I will heed your correspondence in the morn.

Yours Affectionately,

Jared

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