“Anybody ever tells you that they know the guy that invented the Filet o Fish then that person is full of shit. Ain’t nobody got that information,” Sunset said to me before stuffing a generous pinch of limpid French fries into his mouth. He had pulled the fries from a brown paper bag that he held in his left hand. “And I just want to make some thing super clear,” he continued, “it’s not like there’s some secret cabal of Filet o Fish masterminds living in a hacienda or whatever keeping things on the DL with guards and helicopters and dogs and shit.”he tilted his head toward me and I could almost see the homegrown blaze in his eyes through the lenses of his corner store shades. “It’s not the fucking Caramilk secret, right?” Sunset had crumpled the brown bag into a tight ball and kicked it toward a streetside bin, missing by about a foot and a half. “It’s weirder than that. It’s more elusive. It’s like the old smiling lady in the painting,” he took off his mesh back irony cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “You mean the Mona Lisa?” I asked? “Yes, that’s right, her. It’s like the mystery of her smile. I was reading about it online a while ago and it’s the same thing with the Filet o Fish, man. It’s a fucking mystery.”