Pulling the double shift

Who: John Keats (Hes back baby)
Where: Maccy D's through to the medical area
When: -
Johns grasp on the counter tighted as he looked at the clock. It
ticked slowly, but today... today was a good day. After accidently
destroying property worth in excess of $£10000 at work, he was forced
by the mob connected owners of the Blue Dwarf branch of the MacDonalds
federation to pull 382 consecutive double shifts until the damage was
paid,and today, today he had the evening off, for the first time in
almost 1000 hours of work he'd get a break. The grease build up on his
skin made him reak, his hair was a single entity, no longer fine and
bouncy. The caffine in his blood was turning it brown from the coffee.
Five minutes remained, he looked at the multitude of gormless, spotty
teen-clones quietly flipping burgers and oversalting fries.
2 minutes left, the clock ticked slower.
He could barely recall the faces of his friends, only names hung in
the abyss and the occasional remark, one thing was for sure tho, his
marriage was probably down the drain, hed arranged to get remarried,
but properly, but, well,4 months without seeing Amber probably messed
all that up.
"Ok john, see you after the weekend, your pays been forwarded to your
account, have a good weekend"
"Well hawt damn, thats about time"
He threw off his apron and headed to the medical bay to get some
industrial strength bleach to save what remained of his person from
grease, following that, some beers in Parrotts followed by a nice long
sleep. He fell against the wall next to the medi bay, he looked at the
mirrored glass and saw he was in a state, ketchup stained his hands,
and burns could be seen on his face. He hit the door button and fell in.
"Keto, i need a gallon of industrial bleach like the stuff you
threatend the tree with and... and... and something to stop me seeing
triple... hey... i know you.." he pointed vaguely at everyone, Amber
blinked, somewhat taken aback by a presumably drunk decidedly
EX-husband falling around and pointin.
"Yeah, you, goatee boy... hang on a second... what, get your dirty
seventeenth century digits off my.. my... ah to hell with it, you got
a spare bed in the ward?"
he then preceeded to fall haphazardly into a tray of hyperdermic
needles whilst en-route to the floor where he didnt move.
[Tag, hah, bet you wernt expecting THAT to happen!]