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On a dark and moonless night, in times of old, America was not the land of burgers, but the fringes on a new dark continent. There, all manner of suffering and horror reigned supreme, and the abominable creatures who dwelled in the shadows of this land whispered into the ears of the colonists, tainting and warping their souls. They knew of the terrible hunger that remained with them, hanging heavily in their stomachs. Especially when the cold deathly chill of Winter fell upon them. Soon, a twig was considered to be the normal dish, and from there... their own fallen brethren. The spirits knew of this, and so, they proposed an offer that they couldn't refuse: join the burger pact, they spoke, sell your souls to us, and you will never starve again. The leader of the colonists, being the pious souls that he was, said nay.
That was, until the Winter froze over the Spring.
Soon, death would reign supreme. Soon, the English colonies as they knew it would cease to exist. It had to be done, the pact had to be made, and so they killed the leader, sharting all over his head until it froze over into a block of fecal matter. Once the deed was done, they sold him over as sacrifice to the spirits, and in return, the burger pact was signed in blood. Immediately after, the colonists felt no hunger, no famine. They were strong instead of weak, brave instead of craven, and yet... and yet the pact turned out to be a curse. Day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year, decade by decade, and century after century, the curse wore on the burger soul. The descendants of the colonists grew fat off of the life giving burger, grew arrogant over their strength, and eventually, they began to cannibalize the spirits themselves.
Only one spirit remains... Duke.
