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The Great Gary Bentley Outbreak
Gary worked at the town’s beloved Burger Shack, a place famous for its triple‑stack patties, bottomless fries, and—after this particular week—its role in a public‑health catastrophe.
On Monday morning, Gary shuffled in, sniffling like a vacuum with emotional baggage. His nose glowed a heroic shade of red. His sneeze sounded like a tuba being stepped on. And every time he coughed, the napkin dispenser trembled in fear.
Still, Gary was dedicated. Or stubborn. Or unaware of basic hygiene. Possibly all three.
It happened during the lunch rush. Gary leaned over the counter to hand Mrs. Dobbins her usual cheeseburger, and then—
KA‑CHOOOOO!
A sneeze so powerful it rattled the ketchup bottles and sent a mist of microscopic doom drifting across the dining room like a malevolent fairy dust.
Mrs. Dobbins blinked.
“Bless you, Gary.”
“Oh, thanks,” he croaked, wiping his nose with a napkin that immediately regretted its life choices.
By Tuesday, half the town was sniffling.
By Wednesday, the mayor held a press conference through a congested wheeze.
By Thursday, the high school canceled classes because the entire marching band could only play one note: honk.
Gary, meanwhile, soldiered on—coughing, sneezing, and unknowingly distributing the Bentley Bug to every burger‑loving soul in town.
It wasn’t until Friday, when Gary saw the local news headline—
“MYSTERY PLAGUE SWEEPS TOWN; SYMPTOMS INCLUDE SNEEZING, COUGHING, AND SMELLING LIKE BURGER GREASE”
—that he paused mid‑pickle‑slice and whispered,
“…oh no.”
Did they blame him?
Yes.
Did they forgive him?
Also, yes—because Gary showed up the next day with a box of tissues, a gallon of hand sanitizer, and a sign taped to his shirt that read:
“I AM VERY SORRY. PLEASE ORDER FROM A DISTANCE.”
And honestly, the burgers were just too good to stay mad.