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“This all sounds very exciting,” Ronald said. “I must confess that, though my own research, I did indeed find the answers that you seek.”

“What do you want in return for them?” asked the secretary.

Her innocent and naïve tone put a devilish smile on the clown’s face. The secretary looked at his crotch.

"So clown..... how 'bout I see what's inside the Big Tent?" she teased.

Ronald chuckled. “Tits or gtfo. Also, blowjob.”

Without hesitation, the woman tore off all of her clothes. Ronald deftly unzipped his fly and whipped out his schlong. The sight of it made the woman burst out laughing.

“You paint your dick, too?!?” she giggled.

“Bitch, shut up and get ta suckin” Ronald ordered.

The slut did as she was told, looking up only once to ask if Ronald was enjoying himself.

“Oooh, fuck yeah,” the clown moaned. I’m lovin’ it!”

When their aggressive negotiations were finished, Ronald went back to his apartment and retrieved all of the research he had in his possession.
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The groundbreaking evidence that Ronald had been sitting on for all those years was astonishing. Of particular importance were the findings of a nutritional biochemist who had been analyzing fast food as part of his obesity study. His surprising discovery was a previously unknown element which he dubbed KFCium; found in all spices and certain types of salt in fried chicken. Remarkably, the neutrons of these atoms appeared to be engraved with what looked like computer circuits. Simultaneously, archaeologists had discovered lost artwork from ancient Greece and Mesoamerica that showed a Colonel Sanders-like figure giving fried chicken to the first humans.

Upon being presented with this new evidence, Chester leaned back in his office chair. He was stunned.

“It all makes sense now,” he marveled.

Giorgio A. Tsoukalos concurred. “It appears that what we’re dealing with here is some type of extra-terrestrial technology. Perhaps, further evidence can be found in the etchings…………………… OF THE ANCIENT MAYA.”

“This,” said Erich Von Däniken, also seated at Chester’s desk, “is Maya astrology map. Exra-terrestrials use this to navigate to ancient planet of Clarion.”

“SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY!!!” Chester burst out. “This is rock solid evidence. I’ve made up my mind; we’re going there! We have to know the truth! I will organize an expedition immediately; you will both accompany me as scientific consultants.”
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And thus, an interstellar expedition of unprecedented cost and sophistication was mounted.

The Ship:
USS James Russell – Cost: $900 billion USD. Owner: Chester Industries Worldwide. Capable of supporting 30 people for 30 years during near-lightspeed travel. Also features state of the art AI Navicomputer, chemical laser active defense system, railguns, energy shields, a holodeck, luxury suites for each crew member, two greenhouses, medical lab and onboard hospital, dock for transport shuttle, movie theater, spa, and every other conceivable luxury and resource (i.e., author is lazy and wants convenient plot device)

The Crew:
Captain NigNog
> expendable ex-Navy crewman
First Mate JaMarcus
> expendable ex-Navy crewman
Engineer LeVar
> expendable ex-Navy crewman
Chester Chicken
> corporate figurehead and expedition leader
Erich Von Däniken
> chief scientific consultant/historian, Loli/fur/mlp library moderator
Giorgio A. Tsoukalos
> assistant scientific consultant/historian, tanning salon and hair studio manager
Unit B
> Android servant who contracted a virus while downloading porn and appears to be autistic
The Secretary
> Chester’s “employee with benefits”
Ronald McDonald, Grimace, Hamburglar
> Medicinal Botany specialists

Anons, I leave it up to you now: Is there anyone else who needs to go along? End 2 numbers divisible by 3 = your nominee is added to the crew.

TL;DR - I'm drunk. Also, better sex scene than in 50 Shades of Grey.
Get in here, faggots
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Also: must give credit to anon for the first picture; requested it in a drawthread last night.

“Hey Grimace, what time is it?”

“Shit, mah nigga I too damn high right now,” Grimace replied. The fresh joint clutched in his purple lips was flapping about as he spoke.

Hamburglar was not amused. His laptop battery had just died. Before that, he’d watched his fifth “an hero” 4chan thread get pruned just two minutes after posting. But being too drunk to think of a response, he merely stared at his half-baked companion.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Ronald, the third stoned inhabitant of this dismal ghetto apartment. He produced a box of cold McNuggets from under the table he was seated at, and began pouring Honey Mustard over them.

“420 glaze it, faggots.”

Grimace sat down to join him, while Hamburglar stumbled over to an old television that was perched on a dirty, peeling kitchen counter. He hit the power button, and the dusty analog set reluctantly flickered to life.

“Just in time to watch Ancient Aliens,” Ronald sighed. “Fuck this shit. Turn it to something else.”

“Man, fuck you!” Grimace snapped. His ebonics became more pronounced. “Nigga dis shit fo reel. You cain see dat? You just a bitch-ass nigga.”

“They actually DO have some interesting theories,” Hamburglar added. “Like, I saw this one story about how the Aztecs had this one legend. It was about their god of war, represented by the planet Mars, which they charted and tracked through the night sky; being skilled astronomers. Anyway, their legend has it that the war god’s mortal enemy was another god, in the form of a feathered serpent, who flayed him. Now, all the modern evidence points to the planet Mars having a massive collision with some type of rogue planetoid that stripped away its atmosphere. Coincidence? I think not. The Aztecs weren’t stupid, dude. They knew…”

Hamburglar continued his ramblings, but Ronald had zoned out. Ever since he’d lost control of his company, the once merry clown just didn’t care about other people anymore. His troubles had begun ten years earlier, when Chester Chicken first arrived on the fast food scene. At the time, the nation was dealing with the tragic disappearance of KFC kingpin Colonel Sanders, who had been vacationing off the coast of Florida and vanished without a trace. Chester had played upon this grief to build up his own fried chicken empire, and had used insider deals and legal tricks to steal all of KFC’s secret recipes. McDonald’s didn’t stand a chance, and began its tragic decline as the nation went on a prolonged chicken binge. Ronald himself descended into manic depression. His health had also deteriorated, due to prolonged alcohol and drug abuse. He now lived in a cramped, condemnable apartment with his only friends, and his part-time job as a carney made barely enough cash to pay rent and buy weed.

There came a knock at the door. Ronald had gotten up to go take a shit, but figured he could hold it in long enough to answer their unannounced visitor. “Probably that dimebag hustlin’ nigger wondering where his money is,” Ronald sighed.

However, it was not Ronald’s dealer who had come to call, but rather a woman in her early 20s; quite attractive, in fact.

“Lost,” said Ronald.

“Excuse me?” the woman asked.

“S-sorry. Never mind. Come in,” said Ronald, visibly wincing at his own autism.

The woman gingerly stepped through the crooked doorway. She was carrying a large folder stuffed with papers and a laptop case was slung around her shoulder.

Ronald sighed. “Another lawyer?”

“Not exactly,” the woman replied. “I’m a representative of Chester Industries. In fact, I’m a personal secretary to Mr. Chester himself. I come here on his behalf, seeking your help.”

Ronald was pissed. “Why would I do anything for that piece of—“

“Because you will be paid handsomely. We are aware that, during the Fried Chicken Wars, you conducted extensive research and corporate espionage operations against KFC. We are willing to pay for that information; discreetly, of course.”

“You put all your cards on the table; maybe, I talk,” Ronald huffed.

The secretary accompanied Ronald to her waiting limousine. Once inside and able to talk privately, she revealed her company’s mission; to study the ancient origins of the divine substance known as fried chicken. Apparently, Chester’s market share was in decline. In a last ditch effort to stay relevant in the public consciousness, he had organized a lavish global expedition to amass evidence on the subject. Based on what researchers had found, and his own consultations with scientists such as Giorgio A. Tsoukalos, Chester had determined that “A white man, a godlike figure with white garb and a goatee, gave Man the first fried chicken.” But researchers were skeptical and wanted more evidence.

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