Free Broken Piano for President by Patrick Wensink

my back.”
    Until his death, Winters’ suit, traffic-jamming smile and hamburger philosophy (capitalizing on both dining propaganda and World War Two rhetoric) were staples of American hearts and stomachs.

     
“If your life were a tasty Winters Burger, would you be the bun or the beef?”
     
     
“I may have let Hitler slip through my fingers, but mark my words, that’ll never happen with these Stay-Crisp Winters Fries.”
     
     
“Only a communist would limit himself to a single Winters Burger for dinner.”
     
     
“Burgers, fries and a milkshake—now that’s what I call the Axis of Edible.”
     
     
“Enough of this bologna, let’s get down to ground beef.”
     
     
“A burger a day keeps the Nazis away.”
     
     
    On the flip side of the bun, Bust-A-Gut rocketed to overnight sensation status during the early eighties. There is no corporate information regarding the chain’s founder. In cataract-inducing type at the bottom of its press releases, it reads: “A member of the Globo-Goodness Corporation Family of Corporations.” In 1977, weeks before a marketing blitz declared Bust-A-Gut was “the same Bust-A-Gut flavor you’ve always loved, just new,” two mildly popular American burger chains, Ground Beef Grotto and You Want Pickles on That?, were purchased for undisclosed sums and remodeled into domes. Suddenly, the fast food landscape was crowded with yellow and blue. The restaurant’s image was far more subdued than Winters’. It basically said: “This restaurant is blue, yellow, and clean. Enjoy.” In a matter of weeks Americans began asking themselves how they’d ignored this restaurant that, apparently, had always been around the corner. After all, it was shaped like a bubble and that’s pretty hard to miss.
    The domes proved impossible to ignore in the decades to come. But Winters and his kingdom of mansions wouldn’t give up the skyline easily.

It’s been over a week since Christopher Winters passed away. “Peacefully,” a press release reads, “in his sleep from heart failure.” All Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers employees wear black armbands with turn-of-the-century uniforms.
    Hamler crunches through a Space Burger while talking on his phone. Styrofoamy cheddar just lacerated a cheek. This is the fifth lunch break in a row he’s spent car-bound. Spending so much time alone, without someone to come home to after a day of lying and spying, has worked his confidence down to a pile of sawdust. Possibly lower than after the Christopher Winters mess.
    “So, like I said,” the young spy mutters between snapping bites of Olde-Tyme space-age beef. “This fried cheese thing is owning everyone. I heard some dude in the shitter talking about how they’ve adjusted the composition to forty-five percent mozzarella, twenty percent provolone, thirty percent something called Gluten Solvent and five percent other .”
    Outside, the sky is a gray mash of dense clouds. The first snow of the year drops across Hamler’s windshield and melts watery upon landing. The crisscrossing power lines above the parking lot shiver with the breeze.
    “Other,” Tony says like a professor.
    “That’s all I have, man. I had to pick my legs up in the stall just to get that.” His cheek tastes like copper. Bloody cheese.
    “Okay, that’s helpful, really.” Tony sounds disappointed. “Really, Henry. Great work.”
    The car is so cold, steam rises from the bag the way Indians believe souls escape the body. The soul of a freeze dried cow vaporizes into a pine air freshener.
    “Have you interrogated Malinta Redding yet?”
    “I don’t see much of her, Tony. I mean, the least you could have done is get me a job in her department.”
    “Hey.”
    “Sorry. Sorry.” Henry slouches low. Recognizable faces from the office return from lunch, hustling across the frosty parking lot.
    “There weren’t any. Just focus on Malinta Redding, she’s the key. I don’t really care about mozzarella sticks, the boss