The pdq flashes impatiently.
“Do you wish to pay cash, Sir”, asks the waiter. His dead insect-eyes scan for a reaction to his question, assumedly a motion of mine towards my wallet.
“The service charge is optional,” he says. His lips look as though someone has stretched a balloon over his skin and coloured them in with a permanent red pen. He smiles at me. What a wanker.
Servility becomes ugly if the sincerity to find enjoyment in the job in hand becomes strained. It’s a fine line between being servile and being a servant and this cunt is well aware of his shitty hand and clearly hasn’t got the balls to find alternative job prospects; not that I blame him for this, but if his current role is to aid the capture of innocent woman and hand them over to some evil bastard with a hot poker then that is sadistic apathy at its finest. I’ve eaten at a lot of restaurants, believe me when I say that a waiter’s smile should be the most genuine illusion possible; of flower vases and sunsets. This aphid of a creature smiles like a thousand baby rapes; grim and perfectly visible for all to see either directly by being in the wrong place at the wrong time or indirectly via the newspapers.
“I’ll pay with card please”, I say as I hold out my hand to receive the card machine. I turn my lips up at right angles so as to form a counterfeit grin. Sunsets and flower vases; The Great Lie we buy into.
I feel the weight of the device, maintain eye contact with the Insect-Waiter, then wallop him over the head with it. Thump. A body hits the floor. People spin around in their seats and strain their necks to catch the action.
The man dressed in a waistcoat clutches at his head and scuttles about as if he were a human cockroach, searching for safety in its closest proximity. The other diners gasp as a collective. This was not what I ordered with my caviar, they’re probably thinking.
Meanwhile, I slip into a brief reverie, a mind fart, about how this sudden group of diners’ pretending to be shocked is nothing more than a coming together of molecules and atoms belonging to a complex organism that was preparing to rid itself of a tapeworm that has so frequently blighted its progress. Deadly peer pressure. Deadly society.
I take the initiative. “You seriously expect me to pay for this meal? The Juvenile Spéciale was raw and the dish you claim to be food that you put in front of my partner was cold”, I spit. Irrational violence was perfectly acceptable if it involved something as rabidly consumable and profitable as find cuisine. People understood.
The living, breathing organism called ‘A Room Full Of Diners’ turned back to their respective meals. The Insect-Waiter tries to right itself back onto its feet but before it can I pin its fingers beneath the heel of my shoe. I note that a ribbon of blood flows past its eyebrow and down to its jaw. A sense of satisfaction fills me. That’s what pdq machines should be used for.
I lean down to its eye level and whisper, “Where is she?”
The Insect-Waiter winces in what I assume to be pain but it impossible to tell through those obsidian eyes and papier-mâché complexion. I tread my heel down a little harder and repeat my question.
“Where is she?”
It takes a matter of seconds for the Insect-Waiter’s polystyrene will to break into fragments in desperate search of a quick fix to the ‘problem’.
“Delivery Bay 13. North Service Yard”, it stammers.
With a wistful wave of a free hand, the Creature on the floor indicates through the kitchen, directly behind me.
I reach for my pocket, produce my wallet and sprinkle a few coins onto the floor.
—
Word Count 653
Written By Sebastian King on 02.09.14
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Idol Hands 