The Infernal Masters of the Golden Arches catch the scent of your little operation, and they are displeased. Did you think you could get away with it, just because you were a small-timer, a bum that is barely getting by in the home-brew tea trade? They will not allow you to make tea from their thrown away wrappers! No one shall infringe on their odiferousness and patent-pending flavour sciences.
Worse still for you, rather than simply suing, they immediately bring out the big guns. At a midnight management meeting, the executives join together in an ancient and evil rite, reading from their Libro Secretorum Sauces, gorging on french fries, writing out sigils in ketchup and mustard. You will face the ultimate, He who is filled with flurrious rage, He who must answer the summons when they invoke him and release him from his land. Yea, woe, fear for Ronald McDonald is come down unto you, having great wrath, for he knows he must act fast.
Ah, respite! A case of mistaken identity, a misfiring of magick, spares you, as Ronnie the Destroyer destroys not you, but the peeping tom neighbor who was in your backyard trying to catch a glimpse of your beautiful body in the shower. She is ripped apart... screaming.
Naturally, you call the cops when you hear the screams and see a bloody blur in the back yard. They now have your place being watched for any further attacks.