Preface

This is a non-fiction short story of sams wachsmann's experience
with the legendary peener burger.

Operation: Peener

Sam Wachsmann pulls into McDonald’s at exactly 2:17 p.m. on a Tuesday—prime Peener hours, according to a comment he skimmed under a video titled “SECRET MCDONALD’S MENU ITEMS EXPOSED (Must Watch Before They Delete This).” He arrives like he’s about to breach Area 51, riding shotgun in his mom’s 2006 Toyota Sienna. She’s parked diagonally across two spots, windows down, blasting AM radio, and surgically peeling a string cheese like it’s her job. Sam hops out wearing Crocs (sport mode engaged), electric blue basketball shorts, and a shirt that reads, in puff paint: "Certified Sauceologist." His phone is clipped to his belt like a sentient utility tool. He slaps the door twice, astronaut-style. “I’ll be back,” he says to his mom. “With the Peener.” She doesn’t answer. Just nods slowly and keeps peeling cheese. She’s seen this play out before. Sam strides into the McDonald’s with the energy of a man who has seen the secret blueprints. At the register is Lexi, a teenage cashier who looks like she got lost on her way to an underground ska rave. She’s wearing a Chili’s hat for no reason and chewing blue gum like it’s personal. He approaches like he’s entering a speakeasy.

“I’m here,” he says, dropping his voice, “for the Peener Burger.” Lexi squints. “Come again?” Sam lowers his sunglasses (yes, indoors), winks once, taps the counter in a chaotic rhythm that sounds like a squirrel in tap shoes, then makes a triangle with his hands. Then a circle. Then slowly raises both arms like a scarecrow being tazed. “You know,” he whispers. “Double meat. No bun. And the sauce.” Lexi leans back slightly. “...What sauce.” Sam looks side to side. Then leans in even closer. “The sticky one,” he says. “The one that’s, like… half white, half clear. Slimy. Thick. Kinda looks like someone cryogenically preserved sadness. The kind of sauce that makes you feel like you touched something you weren’t supposed to. It jiggles, but spiritually.” Lexi begins typing gibberish into the register just to feel grounded. “Uh-huh. Yep. Let me just scroll through the ‘Forbidden Fluids’ section…” Sam pulls out a folded piece of paper. It’s a crayon drawing of a hamburger surrounded by arrows and flames, with a giant red Sharpie label: “TOP SECRET: SAUCE VAULT.” He slaps it on the counter like a warrant.

Lexi is halfway between horrified and impressed. At this moment, Sam’s phone rings. Clipped to his belt, naturally. He answers dramatically. “Molly. Can’t talk. It’s Peener time.” A slightly static-filled voice answers: “Are you trying to get the Peener Burger again?” Sam’s eyes dart to the windows. “This is different. I have intel now.” “Sam. We met at a Kalahari. You were drinking melted Dippin’ Dots out of a Croc. Be serious.” “I am serious, Molly. I’ve never been more serious in my entire life. This is bigger than us.” “You don’t even know what the sauce is.” “I know it’s half white, half clear, sticky as sin, and cold in a way that’s deeply emotional. That’s all I need.” She sighs. “Call me when you don’t smell like eggnog and conspiracy.” He hangs up, whispering, “She doesn’t understand the vision.”

At this point, the manager, Steve, shows up. He looks like a guy whose week peaked when the ice cream machine worked for four hours straight. “Sir,” Steve says, “what exactly are you trying to order?” Sam straightens. “I want a double meat patty stack. No bread. I want it soaked in that translucent nightmare goo. I know you keep it in the back fridge. I saw a dude named ‘@SauceProphet666’ mix it with Baja Blast on IG Live.” “We don’t have anything like that.” Sam smiles with pity. “That’s exactly what I’d say if I were sworn to secrecy by Big Sauce.” Steve calls security. Sam sees the radio. He knows. “Crap. Operation’s blown. MOM, START THE CAR!” He launches himself out of the restaurant like a flying squirrel on a mission, flopping into the Sienna with the grace of a panicked possum. His mom—mid-bite of a granola bar—sighs and peels out at 17 mph. Lexi leans over the counter and says to no one in particular, “I feel like I just got hit by a food-themed fever dream.” The police are called. A slow-speed chase unfolds. Sam is hanging halfway out the window, screaming: “THE PEENER IS REAL! YOU CAN’T HIDE THE GOO FOREVER!” They loop through a Walgreens, two alleys, and briefly pause at a Taco Bell drive-thru. Sam leans out and yells: “Y’ALL GOT THE GUSHER CHALUPA??” Then the chase resumes. Eventually, the van is cornered behind a HomeGoods. Sam steps out calmly and demands to be addressed as “Agent Mayo.” The police report reads: “Subject attempted to acquire fictitious menu item. Demanded ‘sticky, half-white half-clear liquid.’ Presented crayon diagram as evidence. Believes secret sauce is being hidden by corporate operatives. Strongly recommend a wellness check, or at least some hydration.”

The Peener Burger remains a mystery. But sometimes—late at night—when the back fridge hums just a little too long…and the sauce packets glisten with unsettling intensity…Lexi swears she can still hear his voice, faint on the drive-thru wind whispering: “BRING FORTH… THE PEENER.”