uh oh dead bodies
There’s nothing quite like a small town diner; the overweight homely gal at the counter that calls everyone sugar because her marriage failed years ago and is desperately searching for a little bit of love, the twenty-something year old blonde whose optimism doesn’t align with her pity of a life running tables, the chef who’s worldview is limited to the kitchen and the bottom of a bottle, and the regulars who flow in out of the grimy shop.
The stern man at the corner booth is not a regular and doesn’t want to become one. He’s here for work; nothing more nothing less. His work — a middle aged accountant — sits in front of him enjoying a rubber omelette with a side of greasy hash browns. It makes his arteries clog just looking at it. How anyone could eat that escapes him, but it wasn’t his job to judge. All that was expected of him was to keep the fat bastard alive.
The accountant leans in towards the center of the booth and asks, “So what happens after the testimony?” A chunk of hash brown flies out of his mouth, landing in a greasy pile on the table.
The man grimaces, baring his hard eyes into the other man before replying, “Depends, but now is not the time.”
Bouncing her way over to the table, the young waitress struggles to keep sloshing lukewarm coffee in their mugs. Slowing down would benefit the girl, but the day is unspoilt and youth excretes from every pore. She flashes a grin at the two men receiving only one back. Her ponytail swings back and forth as she rambles about everything and simultaneously nothing. The fat bastard laps up every word, leaning in slightly to smell her cheap Walmart perfume. The girl stares at them expectedly. The stern man takes a sip of his coffee, forcing a smile for her. It was the worst coffee he had ever had, but it pleases her enough that she heads back to the counter.
An elderly man pushes open the door and waddles in his old man fashion over to the young waitress, demands already on his lips. Her cheer is unmoved by this man’s scowl. She leads him over to a seat, hands him the local paper, and asks for his order.
He scowls, “Coffee, black. Real eggs, spent two years in the army I’ll know if they’re powdered, scambled.”
“One black coffee and scrambled eggs. Anything else?”
The man’s face twists as if he had just heard the most offensive thing in his life, “Real scrambled eggs and if I wanted something else I would have said something more.”
The woman, who has been eyeing the situation, takes pity on the girl and says, “Get the man his real eggs and tell Al, ‘if he wants to get his smokes in he better do it now before rush hour.’”
A stillness falls upon the diner that is only broken by the swinging of the kitchen doors as the young waitress passes through them, but even they sway calmly. The old man has retired from his nagging and now sits quietly filling out the weekly crossword in the Times. This is nice; the man almost could be a regular in this atmosphere.
“I told you to give him a quick message not to have a whole conversation,” the homely woman says, standing up from her stool and heading towards the kitchen. There’s an edge to her tone that makes the stern man’s back straighten. “What in God’s name-”
A gunshot rings out; the woman falls. At the doors stands a tall masked man with a gleaming silver arm and a handgun, behind him are the bodies of the chef and waitress. The stern man sits in a stupor. He knows he should grab the gun in his holster; it’s his job, but he can only stare. Another gunshot rings out and the old man slumps in his chair.
“Do something, protect me,” the bastard hisses.
The stern man’s fingers fumble with the buttoned latch on his holster. He pulls his gun and fires twice. The bullets fall to the floor, deflected by the metal arm. Fear tightens its grip on the man’s chest as hopelessness washes over him. He is no match for this man; no amount of fighting will ever prevent this crappy diner in a crappy town from being his place of death. He’s going to die.
The gunman grabs onto the collar of his shirt and pulls him close. The man’s breathing is steady, no sweat sits on his brow. This is easy for him. The stern man wishes he could say he looked his killer in the eyes as he was killed. When he was a young man in the marines, his mates all agreed that they were going to look death in the eyes when he came. He’s come and the stern man feels a coward. He feels shame as death throws him across the room, crashing hard into the counter.
Pain and defeat soaked every inch of his body. All those years of training and he is reduced to watching his job have the life choked out of him. He flails against the man, desperately trying to claw at any bit of flesh in reach. The man doesn’t move though; he remains unfazed by the attacks against him. There’s a sickening crunch and the bastard goes limp. Sudden relief fills the stern man’s vein. He’s failed, the other guy succeeded, and hopefully he’ll be leaving soon. The man squeezes his eyes shut; he feels every ache in his body.
A small groan escapes his lips. The gunman’s turns in his direction. The stern man releases another groan before looking up to meet the cold eyes of the other man. A chill runs up his spine. The gunman takes a knife out of his pocket, flips it, and tosses it.