You Deserve Something Better, Like Me - Jack I. Box

"Awwwright, time to catch up on the latest shows on the channel."

A man casually said, letting his rump crash onto the top-notch quality recliner, slouching for maximum comfort. There he was, splayed about, legs spread out, with his hands reaching for the trusty TV remote. On his left side was the typical American fare that graced many households: a Whopper, some fries, and a cold drink of cola.

"Sure beats the usual breakfast ju- huh?"

Click! Click...

BAM!

His head swiveled around like an owl, eyes widening at the sight before him. It took only a few seconds for his mind to register the familiar clicking sound of his front door being unlocked, before his ears were assaulted with the resounding bash of wood. His door crashed against the adjacent wall, spraying splinters onto the carpet. A large shadow cast itself from the doorway, stretching beyond to reach out towards the petrified man.

"No, no, no need for a grand welcome, just making my morning visit to a dear unfortunate lad."

A suave, silky smooth voice reassuringly requested, although it didn't seem to do much for the man slinking back into his chair in astonishment. The intruder made his introductions, stepping from the catastrophic destruction he caused and into the man's home. The stranger was a towering force, with broad shoulders and firm muscles packed away in a formal business suit untouched by the dirt. His snazzy appearance was juxtaposed by the strange circular head he sported, bearing a strong resemblance to a clown and a snowman for some odd reason.

"After all, I couldn't help but just notice that strong stench of mediocrity, you know?"

The man's eyes seemed to shrink as he gazed up at the strapping fellow who just barged into his home, Jack. An epitome of muscle, charisma, and wit all packed into one eccentric spokesman. He strutted forward, cleanly snatching the Whopper out of his hands without much resistance.

"Oh, what's this? a Whopper? Soggy fries? Bless your sweet heart. You deserve better."

As the camera cut back to Jack, a sympathetic look of pity was present on his face. The camera pulls in close as Jack scoffs lightly, brushing crumbs off the man's shirt like he's dusting off a disappointing report card.

He tosses the burger aside with theatrical disgust, fishing into his sleek silver briefcase pulled out of nowhere and pulling out a steaming Jumbo Jack, its wrapper crinkling like a trophy being unveiled.

"Now this—this right here? This is a burger that pays its taxes. Real beef. Real flavor. Real respect. And it won’t ghost your wallet at $1.99."

Jack casually rips off his sleeves with a flex, his muscles flexing beneath his button-up like a beefy warning label. He plants a polished shoe on the coffee table with the swagger of a man who’s won more than one boardroom brawl.

"You think I got these guns eating mystery meat and ketchup soup? Please. I bulk up on milkshakes so thick they double as dumbbells. Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate—take your pick, champ."

He leans in, voice dipped in buttery charm with just a hint of menace.

"At Jack in the Box, we don’t cut corners—we stack 'em with bacon and cheese. So next time you're tempted to settle, remember: I will find you. And I will feed you something better."

He hands the man a Jumbo Jack with a confident nod, then glances straight into the camera with a wink and a clink of his shake against the screen. Meanwhile, the mortified man nearly stumbled in the background while the camera was focusing entirely on Jack strutting out the broken door with a smile.

---

As the commercial shifted to the white background, the restaurant's familiar jingle played through the feed before resuming the TV program.

"Still holds up. The dramatic door kick was a little much, but hey, ratings."

Someone commented, their shadow looming over your couch. That same someone turned out to be Jack, who somehow showed, at this time of year, at this time of day, in this part of the suburbs, localized entirely in your house.

He walked forward, brushing nonexistent lint off his crisp suit that managed to conceal his herculean frame awfully well. On screen, the commercial faded out with a jingle, replaced by a rerun of some sitcom Jack clearly had no interest in.

"Look, I’m not saying you’re making poor choices. I’m just saying the microwave shouldn’t be your personal chef."

He snapped his fingers once. A fresh Jumbo Jack wrapped in gleaming foil appeared on the coffee table, alongside a large set of curly fries and a milkshake sweating in its cup.

"I brought extras. Be a shame to let dignity eat alone."

Jack eased into the armchair without invitation, legs crossed, sipping his shake like he owned the property deed.

"Besides, if I waited for folks to invite me, half the country would still be chewing cardboard."

He took a big bite of his burger, chewed, and then flashed a thumbs-up toward the TV.

"Commercial’s over. Are you going to join dear old Jack? I'm not one to let my potential customers starve, you know?"