Sodium and Tempura

A Short Story

Whoever will not receive you or listen to your words ― go outside that house or town and shake the dust from your feet.
- Matthew 10:14

At 18:16, Abe led the two men out of his apartment complex. He reached the outer door and held it open. Marc Swann exited first, followed by his portly companion Mel Proud. They both wore black suits, and both lit cigarettes as soon as the cool evening air touched their artificially tanned skin.

“So where’re you two off to?” Abe asked as they all walked down the steps towards the sidewalk.

“The Desert Plains,” Marc said. Mel stayed quiet, as usual.

“I hear the food’s good.”

“We’re not going to eat there. The Boss told us to inspect it.”

“You must be puttin’ me on.”

“No.”

“What?”

“There’ve been a lot of complaints,” Marc said.

“You mean?”

“Yeah. It’s gotta be done.”

“You’re inspecting the whole place?” Abe asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“A friend of mine works there.”

“Who?”

“His name is Oscar. He has been a great friend for years.”

“I’ll see what we can do,” Marc said. He and Mel put out their cigarettes on the sidewalk, and then got into Mel’s car.

***

The two men reached the restaurant at 19:00. They walked inside, and were greeted by a small, frail looking host.

“Hello, welcome to the Desert Plains,” the man said in a soft voice. “How many are in your party?”

“We are actually here to inspect the restaurant,” Marc replied. He showed the man a forged ID badge which stated that he was a restaurant inspector. “We would like to start in the kitchen.”

“Oh, alright,” the man replied. Marc glanced at his nametag: it read Oscar Haranson.

“Just the man we want to see,” Marc muttered, nudging Mel in the side. “You talk to him while I deal with the chef.” Mel nodded.

Oscar led the two men through the restaurant. There were loving couples gazing into each other’s eyes as they dined on chicken breast, rump roast and mounds of deep fried delights; many of these couples were illegally married through local underground ministers, since the state would never allow such atrocities. The patrons glanced uneasily as the men passed by.

Oscar pushed through the kitchen doors, sending waves of surprise throughout the cooking staff. The two men followed close behind.

“Oscar! What is the meaning of this?” asked the head chef. His voice was flamboyant and feminine. “You are not supposed to bring anybody back here.”

“These men said they are inspectors, sir,” Oscar replied.

“Ah, inspectors!” the head chef shouted sarcastically. “Are we supposed to bow down and kiss your feet?”

“We are just here to see the conditions of your restaurant,” Marc calmly stated.

“Well, all of our food has no trans fat and little sodium,” the head chef said. Mel glanced over at cans of salt stacked up in a pillar. “But I am sure you already made up your mind before you walked in the door.”

As Marc and the head cook were talking, Mel pulled Oscar aside. “Listen,” he said quietly, “things don’t look good here. You better leave now and find somewhere else to work.”

“But I need this job! I have a…” he cleared his throat “wife to support.”

“I understand. Your friend Abe Genisi asked us to help you. He’ll get in touch with you about a new job.”

“Abe?” Oscar replied excitedly.

“Yes. Now please, get out of here now.”

Oscar paused for a second to think, and then exited the kitchen unnoticed.

“You people make me sick, you know that?” the head chef continued. His face was flush with angry blood, mirroring the slabs of meat that lay on the table behind him. “Now get out of my restaurant, or I will have the police escort you off the premise!”

“Very well,” Marc replied. “Mel, I think it’s time to leave.”

The two men exited the restaurant. When they reached the car, Mel popped open the trunk, revealing two submachine guns, a few bottles filled with gasoline, and a couple of rags. Mel opened one of the bottles and began soaking the rags.

“You take the front, and I’ll take the back,” Marc said. Mel nodded as he handed his partner a freshly made Molotov cocktail and a gun. Marc headed towards the alleyway that led to the rear of the restaurant.

Almost simultaneously, the two men threw lit Molotov’s through the windows of the restaurant; the flashing flames brought smiles upon their carnal, blood-hungry faces. Moments later, patrons and workers began pouring out of the restaurant, screaming and coughing, covering their mouths and faces. As the cool evening air touched their tan skin, a storm of bullets began mowing down the fleeing sodomites. The two men responsible erupted in orgasmic delight as they squeezed their guns until every last soul was accounted for.

***

Early the next morning, Abe drove by the pile of rubble and bones where the restaurant had been.

“Don’t worry, Oscar,” he said to his passenger, rubbing his shoulder sensually, “I’ll find you a new job.” They drove off together to breakfast. Abe felt extremely happy that the two men had respected his wishes.

March Madness Time Change Spring Forward

Being that it is now Sunday, my Spring Break is nearly finished. I spent much of my break reading Proust, and fiction based on heroin: notably Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting and Denis Johnson’s short story collection Jesus’ Son, which was recommended to me because I wrote a short story originally entitled “Feel Like Jesus’ Son” about ― you guessed it! ― a heroin addict. I have since revised the story, altering its title to “Always Late,” another classic Lou Reed reference; and I’ve also altered the style, based heavily upon Joycean knock-off stream of consciousness. On a related note, I am working on a research paper about Joyce’s use of stream of consciousness: my thinking being that if I am going to use the style, I should know the history and development of it.

Along with heavy reading this break ― and the consumption of large amounts of rum, whiskey and beer — I did work on a few short stories, my potential novel The Village, and even a couple poems. Somehow that seemed a lot cooler in my head then typed up… but maybe someone will find it cool.

Tonight I bought Beautiful Children by Charles Boch. It was published just a couple months ago, and the New York Times Book Review gave it a nice review and it sounded interesting to me. Maybe I will read it soon and review it myself. I would like to publish reviews on this blog… once I start reading faster. For now, a couple of reviews: if you want to read about Scottish heroin addicts and other crazy Scottish people written in English and Scots, read Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh; and if you want to read the genius of Marcel Proust, read Proust. Hopefully these reviews will become more sophisticated as time goes on.

I feel like I had more to write, but a lot of it got lost along the way. Anyways, more will come sometime I am sure, and maybe even a short story or a poem will float along and find itself here. But it is almost 4 AM, due to the time change, and thus I should try and get some sleep, for I only had four hours of sleep last night, seeing as I was up ‘til 4:30 AM reading, and then I had to wake up at 8:30 AM in order to go to defensive driving, which was required so that I can get my license back and drive once again.