RR, this is what your writer did: He stopped writing and began reading, library books and pages printed from the internet, pages on the internet, all about the history of this burger franchise he was thinking of, this burger franchise that cannot be named (but unfortunately cannot not be thought of) (while the job was ignored, while he neglected his word counts, his presence in the office that of a fussy, persnickety, ultimately rejectable caret, him stetting all carelessness by being careless himself) — reading about the brothers who’d founded a restaurant that made burgers and that was very successful, everyone loved their burgers and came to eat them from all over the area where their restaurant was located, this was California and the year was 1954 (information like a conglomerate restructuring imagination: 1954 the birth of color TV, your writer’s parents, desegregation!), and then another man approached these brothers, an entrepreneur with the entrepreneurial spirit, and bought from them their restaurant and along with buying their restaurant did something absolutely incredible — your writer remembers how shocked and incredulous he was when he learned this was possible, he remembers how naive and immature he felt when he learned that not only could this be done but that it was done often and that there were even laws in place to govern such indelible transactions — along with selling this man their restaurant these brothers sold this man their name. The burger restaurant’s founding fraternity sold their surname to this man who promptly trademarked it, in doing so preventing the brothers from collecting any further monies based on its usage: if they wanted to open another restaurant — emburgered, unemburgered, regardless — they couldn’t use their own name, they had to use another, it was almost an indulgence that they were allowed to keep their surname at all, permitted to pass the name of their father as a birthright to their children (did they have any children? check?). This man as sole owner of the patriprefixed name of other men then took this sole restaurant he owned and duplicated it, triplicated it, corporatized the restaurant into restaurants throughout California to begin with before proceeding to culinarily colonize the country and then the world and your writer read about this, RR — this was his only attempt at research and his findings disgusted and that was winter, New York City, 2008.
A winter in which your writer avoided his parents and slacked on his quotas and for environmentally unsustainable months kept you driving insomniac throughout the Midwest or middling enough environs only because he couldn’t bring himself to write or type out the novenary letters that nominalized the restaurant you and he so desperately had to patronize, RR — with that body in the back, that bloody body in the back, with the corpse in your trunk, your writer thought, the corpse in pieces pocketed about your person, your writer rethought. The difference between freeway and highway being. The difference between a street and a road is. Verbs: to vor at vittles, to phage the grub. Adjectives: wet highway, green highway, bluegreen highway, knotted/involutedly tortuous. Tolls? (Incorporate: the relationship between procrastination and hunger, image: radio’s volume knob as areola, image: roadside ditch like a rumbling fryer, image: RR’s stomach a spare tire, image: in the backseat, only soured leftovers clunking around.)
12/08, pages/.txt files were surfeited with substitute titles for this unnameable pit: Melter’s, Grilltastic, Big Burger (“Where the Burgers are Big,” whose stale logo was to have been two linked Bs, two interlinked Bs — like the monogram on a newlywed couple’s luxe towel set — until he stumbled on the potential inherent in two Bs whose long vertical spines had been laid horizontally, lazy recumbent BBs suggesting two brothers with beerguts knocked flat on their backs breathing hard after a meal — as if a napkin had been pulled out from under them — or like four stomachswelling burgers queued up for an aftermeal snack: 
). The hope was to make art, RR, not problems. Not recipes for prose, not prosaic receipts. Your writer couldn’t bring himself to wordprocess the name of this famous imitatee, searching instead for other names to call it, why? he asks himself, Why? Maybe he can’t mention the famous out of resentment? maybe he resents everything famous? After all this famous original — he should start calling it differently every time so that not even a reference or negation becomes its appellation by default: Famey Chain, or Fra-Fra-Franchise, Sobriquette, or The Restaurant That Resists All Monikering — after all, this infamous chain has never paid him, this cloying corny syrupy franchise that won’t or can’t etc. etc. has never supported his art.