"Just...just leave! I've got all the money you want!"
The words seem to trouble out of your mouth lacking any sign of maturity or class. The "manager" looks as though he's about to throw a fit! You, a foreigner, acting as king in HIS greasy & disease ridden kingdom. He opens his mouth to let fly a wild tongue lashing when you scrape together some meager mask of etiquette & grace and cut him off with, "Sorry, but my friend here is not nearly done eating, and we're going to need ALOT more of you're...services."
Like an L.A. lawyer you devilishly unsheathe the miraculous debit card from your back pocket and continue with, "The number is," the sequence 433-517-0884 followed by 6734 flashes in your mind like a well planned firework display "433-517-0884, and the pin number's 6734. Make sure he gets all the chicken he wants and needs for as LONG as he likes."
As the card exchanges hands you see an entertaining clash of pain & pleasure within the "manager's" eyes. Pained that he will unable to exact his duty to kick your butt to the street, but pleased that he'll be able to make quite a sum of money, judging by the rate at which Sean is still eating. He turns, heels clicking with the sound of a disappointing loss, and returns to his fatty & high blood pressure domain in the trenches of the KFC.
With the ordeal now put in place, you return to Sean to find him...