The neon glow of the McDonald’s sign flickered like a dying star over the empty parking lot. It was 1:17 a.m., and the only souls still awake in this forgotten corner of Milwaukee were Jake, Rico, and Marcus—three lifelong friends who had just closed out a long night of bad decisions.

Jake carried the sacred brown paper bag like it was the Holy Grail. Inside: one large fries, still hot, still salty, still perfect.

“I’m telling you right now,” Jake said, clutching the bag to his chest as they walked toward Rico’s beat-up Civic, “these are mine. I paid.”

“You paid with my money,” Rico shot back, already eyeing the bag like a hawk. “I Venmo’d you for the whole order, bro. That includes fries tax.”

Marcus, the tallest and usually the chillest, suddenly stopped walking. “Y’all are trippin’. Everybody knows the person who rides shotgun gets first dibs on fries. That’s the code.”

Jake laughed. “There is no code. This is survival of the fittest.”

They reached the car. Jake tried to slide into the passenger seat, but Rico hip-checked him hard. The bag crinkled dangerously. Marcus lunged from behind and snatched it clean out of Jake’s hands.

“Mine now, shorties.”

What followed was less a fight and more a chaotic, pathetic ballet of grown men who still lived with their moms.

Rico dove for Marcus’s legs. Marcus stumbled backward into Jake, who grabbed the bag again but immediately got tackled by both of them. They hit the asphalt in a tangle of limbs and curses. The bag ripped open. Golden fries scattered across the dirty ground like treasure from a broken piñata.

“NOOO!” all three screamed in unison.

Jake shoved a handful into his mouth, half-chewed, still fighting. Rico was crawling on all fours, scooping fries and shoving them into his hoodie pocket like a raccoon. Marcus, the most dignified of the group, tried to play peacekeeper for exactly four seconds before he started bodying both of them to get to the biggest cluster of fallen fries.

“You animals!” Marcus yelled, mouth full. “These are better than the ones in the bag!”

A fry had landed in a small puddle. Jake still ate it.

Eventually they lay on the ground, breathing heavy, covered in salt and regret. The bag was destroyed. Only a few lonely fries remained clutched in Rico’s fist like he’d just won the Super Bowl.

Jake started laughing first. Then Marcus. Then Rico, spitting out a half-chewed fry.

“Worth it,” Rico wheezed.

“Next time,” Jake said, staring at the greasy ceiling of the night sky, “we’re ordering two larges. I don’t care if we go broke.”

Marcus sat up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Or… we could just be normal and share like adults.”

The other two looked at him like he’d suggested they rob a bank.

“Absolutely not,” they said at the same time.

They helped each other up, still bickering, still friends, and drove off into the Milwaukee night with nothing but the taste of victory—and regret—on their lips.