For 150 years Rotten Dragon has stood as a mainstay in the Fast Food department. We look forward to contuning our tradition.






Look. Kid. Buddy.


Step away. I know you. I know you don't want this.


You don't wanna know the history of a franchise. They're all the same, see? Small-town underdog with a passion for food opens his dream-business, it does well, expands, compromises are made, control is lost, and everything (d)evolves into a lawyer-fueled legal storm where everyone kneels at the altar of the Profit. You've see it a billion times.


So just go home. Enjoy the food and the surprisingly predictable prices.





.....You're still here? Alright.

Chad Albrow was the third child of Theresa and Armand Albrow of the Sungate bunker baby clan in 032.P.S. He had a lofty dream- a dream of being rich.  He tried hosting guided tours of the Sprawl, but was quickly arrested.  He tried to own the beach, and charge people to swim, but everyone thought he was a dick and egged his windows.


He spent a few months working as a delivery person, but was hit by a bus, and spent the next 7 years in a coma (this was back when comas were in fashion). The doctors finally declared him lost, and were about to pull the plug, when miraculously, he opened his eyes. His brain had been active the entire time, and, to pass the unimaginable boredom, he'd began to construct a plan for what he'd do if he ever woke up.


That plan was a taco truck.


He begged for money from his surviving family and friends and bought an old trailer. A bit of wood and corrugated steel, and he was ready to go. He didn't know how to cook- it didn't matter. 7 years trapped in his own mind had given him an insatiable energy.


His truck met with limited success until he parked it beneath a vintage EL Coil sign from the old Third Summer of Asbestos pavilion. People were noticing the sign and, inadvertently, his truck.


Noting the expired trademark, Chad took the sign on as his own. For a while the incongruous menu vexed customers (taco truck vs. noodle-logo), but all was fine once he recovered the lost art of boiling spaghetti.


Business exploded. A fleet of new Rotten Dragon trucks appeared all over the city, and they could scarcely keep up with the demand. Chad spent less and less time making food, and more and more in his 60th story office, dealing with distributors and vendors. The words "eccentric" and "recluse" were thrown around. Chad's business dealings became increasingly shrouded in secrecy, and he started demanding new locations open up all over the map, some far outside the city walls where business was near-or-entirely nonexistent.


Critics proclaimed the end of the franchise, citing Chad's obvious insanity for running the business into the ground. But to everyone's incredulity the next quarter marked a 200% increase in profits, and even more bloomin' franchise locations.


Chad spent his twilight years in a mansion near the border wall, issuing inscrutable decrees and pouring incalculable sums into the construction of a sky-scraping temple for the entity he called St. Airs. He spent ever increasing amounts of time in bed, sometimes sleeping as much as 13 hours a night, and when he finally slipped away the Winter of 68PS it was a silent affair. His estate was auctioned off, and St. Airs templed was bulldozed to make room for what is now the Centerlake Shopping Center.


His body is buried in Oceanview Court. Visiting hours are 8-5pm M-Saturday. Donations are encouraged.