What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Seven

It turns out the luncheon is for a group of third graders. What could be worse? The little brats have their choice of pizza, grilled cheese, or chicken chunks, which is simple enough to memorize as I jot down their orders. Ms. A and Kazuko are socializing, handing out gifts, like inverted sour patch ladies--sweet on the outside, sour on the inside.

I get a quick break and step into the walk-in to cool off. I text Bea to brag about my sacrifice.

Bea Plastique: Aw, you're such a sweetie. I want to see you in your cute server outfit. I bet you look hot. ;)
Mormon Silver: Yes, aprons become me. Now if I could only find one in argyle.
Bea Plastique: Tell you what, Uncle M, let me know when you're done, and I'll give you a tour of the infamous Blue Room.
Mormon Silver: The what?
Bea Plastique: I think you'll like how it's decorated. I know I LOVE it.

As I finish reading the last text the walk-in door opens to Kazuko.

"You slackass. Put away phone. Get movin'."
"I was ... um ... looking for the desserts."
"Ice cream, dumdum. In freezer, not walk-in."

I prepare a tray of tri-flavor ice cream, and proceed out to the table. The kids are already unruly; sugar is the last thing they need. As I approach, the kids become silent and start giggling and whispering. Who's paranoid? Me.

Just as I fill both hands with plates, one little fucker whips out a squirt gun and start nailing me, right in the crotch. Perfect. I grab the gun from him.

"Very funny. Where did you get this?"
"That old lady over theyo gave it to me. She says you're bad and I should squirt you in da wiener."
"Cute," I say as I glare at Grandma.
"Gimme back my gun."
"You can either have the squirt gun or the ice cream?"
"But ..."
"I throw in five bucks. Which one will it be?"
"Ice cweam, pwease."
"Good boy."

I holster the squirt gun in my apron, give the brat a fiver, and plot my revenge. After the kids leave, the perimeter of the table looks like a war zone. Kazuko hands an odd-looking sweeping contraption to me.

"You crean."

I mumble to myself as I run over the same french fry ten times, unsuccessfully. A text pings in.

Bea Plastique: Ready, Uncle M?
Mormon Silver: Oh, you have no idea how ready, Lovergirl. Where to?
Bea Plastique: Take the elevator down to P2 underground. Look for parking space 243. Knock three times on the blue door next to it.
Mormon Silver: This better be good.

I finish sweeping kid shrapnel and another message pings in. It has an attached picture of Bea from the neck down--naked and glistening in oil--holding the camera in front of a mirror. Slick! I'm out of here.

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