Smith cursed. McDonald had escaped and now he had to find him again.

He took the time to reload his Desert Eagle before stepping outside. The rain had died down a bit; the sun could be seen setting in the distance behind an array of deep orange clouds. One thing that was different about the sun here, though, was that it had a large, smiling face on the front of it.

McDonald-Land made Smith want to vomit.

The place was a greasy, smelly, and altogether much too happy place. The birds that flew overhead had wings made of burger buns; the leaves that fell from the tree were not leaves but French fries. Every step Smith took, he could feel his shoes wanting to slip against the grease that seemed to cover every surface of this vast, filthy place.

Mr. McDonald had been a good program in his time, Smith thought as he approached his black Rolls Royce. But that was just the point; McDonald's time was up. He had to be deleted. Of course, no program with a stable AI wanted to be deleted. So Ronald McDonald had himself "unplugged" from the system and had created his own version of the Matrix, an offshoot from the actual thing. It disgusted most of the other programs.

Smith started his car and drove down the three-day-old-meat covered road. The people here didn't look too happy either, Smith decided. They were obviously the worst humanity had to offer. He passed a couple on his way out of the fry farms on his way to the McMegaCity. They were all huge, writhing mounds of fat that seemed even greasier than their surroundings, if that was even possible.

It was well past sunset when Smith finally got to McMegaCity. Despite the fact that all the human citizens who dwelt here were larger, fatter, and uglier than any other humans, the city still had a bustling nightlife. People walked the streets, going to raves or nightshifts or whatever it was people went to at ten o' clock at night. Having no need for sleep, Smith did not need to stop his hunt for Ronald, but this put him no farther ahead of his prey; McDonald was a program too. He needed no rest.

Smith pulled into a deserted parking lot, which was next to a very familiar park. It looked too simple to be a park, really: just a barren concrete courtyard surrounded by benches and decrepit buildings. Even here in McDonald-Land, though, Smith recognized it. That was where he and his thousands of clones had attacked Neo, and almost won. But, Smith thought, Mr. Anderson flew away like the pansy human that he was.

Smith got out of his car and walked back to the side of the street from which he had come. Cars flew by from each direction, ferrying the grotesque humans who were enslaved in this disgusting placed. Smith nonchalantly crossed the street, not worrying whether or not a car would hit him. Most of them braked hard to avoid him; one didn't stop in time. Smith stopped it with his hand, crushing the front bumper.

He reached the other side of the street, not even looking back at the carnage he had caused, and made his way into a street-corner McDonalds.

He didn't really get a warm welcome.

The skinny, wimpy-looking, pimple-faced cashier behind the counter looked up from giving change to an elderly old woman. His face went dead white. He quickly glanced to a poster on the wall behind the cashier's counter: it was a picture of Smith with a warning written underneath.

The wimpy cashier pressed a large button marked with a happy face.

All at once, all the windows and doors out of the building were sealed tight by thick metal bars. The employees made their way to stand in front of the register.

"Agent Smith," the acne-cursed cashier called out. Smith looked at his nametag; it read, 'Hi, My name is Jerry.' Jerry went on. "Ronald McDonald has, today, given you his ultimatum. Leave McDonald-Land and make sure that no program from the Matrix impedes in our world again."

Smith just stood in his place. "You think that anyone in this filthy world can stop me from killing him off?"

Jerry went on as if undisrupted. "If you do not comply, the prestigious Ronald McDonald will declare war on the Matrix."

There were a few seconds of silence after this. Suddenly, Smith gave off a long, villainous laugh. "He cannot stop me. No one here can! And a war on the Matrix would just destroy this pathetic copy all too easily. " His face melded once more into his grin-scowl.

"Not if we can help it," the employees all chorused together. As if all of them were controlled by one entity, they assumed battle stances in exactly the same motions and rushed Smith.

In one quick move, Smith drew his Desert Eagle .50 AE and blew away eight of the onrushing McDonald's workers. The other four circled around him.

Smith dropped the pistol and kicked the nearest McZombie square in the face. He toppled backwards, nose spewing blood. Smith felt a small spark of victory until the doors to the staff room flew open and ten more McZombies emerged. The other three originals regrouped with their new comrades, and together they rushed Smith.

The agent lifted a table off the floor, completely ignoring the bolts that had held it in place, and tossed it at the onrushing horde. The first few in the lead moved out of the way; the third-to-last in line didn't see it in time and was hit in the forehead. His neck snapped back at an odd angle and he fell.

The others still moved towards Smith. He imagined that his was how Mr. Anderson must have felt when he had outnumbered him. He laughed even as they circled him. It was slightly ironic.

The McZombies chose this point to converge on the agent. Smith leapt up into the air, deftly dodging the hands that grasped for him, and delivered a kick to another McZombie's neck. His larynx collapsed and he fell to the floor, trying to breathe but getting no air.

Smith fell back to the ground in a whirl of fists and feet, wounding several of his attackers and causing the rest to step back. Three more fell to the ground dead, one was trying to crawl away with a broken hip joint, and the other five were standing just out of Smith's reach. He kicked the wounded one twice and he stopped moving. Smith turned his attention to the other five. "Who's next?" he asked tauntingly. All of them took another step back.

Smith stepped forward, grabbed one by the arm, smacked the outside of his elbow so that the joint popped out the other side of his arm, and tossed him like a rag doll at one of the others, who broke his skull open as his head hit the corner of a table. The remaining three turned to run back to the staff room.

Smith spied his Desert Eagle still lying on the floor. He picked it up, expertly changed clips, and shot the two retreating McZombies who were closer to the staff room, right in the back of the head. He ran forwards and grabbed the remaining McDonald's employee. He pressed the muzzle of his pistol to the underside of his enemy's chin. "Where is Ronald McDonald?" he asked.

"I'm not telling you anything!" the McZombie practically screamed, and he spat on Smith's tie. Smith jammed his pistol harder against the other man's chin. "Tell me, you disgusting, pathetic example of intelligent life!"

"Never!"

Smith smacked him on the side of the head with the pistol butt. "Tell me," he yelled at the McZombie. The employee just shook his head defiantly, despite his pain. Smith stayed cool-headed. "If you won't reveal McDonald's hiding place to me, I still have six bullets in this gun to work unimaginable pain on you before I leave you bleeding on this floor."

The McZombie seemed to have a change of mind. "Okay, okay," he mumbled in defeat. "I'll tell you. He's..." suddenly, the man's back arched. He started foaming at the mouth; then, he died. Smith dropped him on the floor.