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Jerry finished his coffee and asked for the check. The cute waitress’ shift had ended, so the other one came over with it. He wasn’t happy and gave her a face so sour and hateful that she had trouble sleeping for a week. He screwed his brow down and curled his lip; he squinted his eyes with such concentrated malice! $12.73? Was she fucking kidding? For coffee and some eggs?

He left the money on the table and went outside. The sun had gone behind a single big puffy gray cloud. It stayed there for the rest of this story. He reached into his pocket for his keys and managed to jam his ingrown fingernail on something in his pocket. Fuck! He pulled them out and got in the car. It started. God damn it. This day was really sucking.

He pulled out into traffic and got angry in earnest. This endless useless parking lot, with stereo stores and furniture stores, discount records and sporting goods, second-rate diners, motels, strip joints and bowling alleys: what the fuck was this place?

He was supposed to meet Sammy in front of a cheap motel called Couples Paradise. He wasn’t there to fuck. He was there for a simple business transaction. He had taken some unsavory pictures of himself, and now was expected to hand over a lump of cash to keep them out of the papers. Only, he had a trick or fucking two up his sleeve. These douche bags thought they could screw Jerry? Well, screw them!


While dismembering Jerry’s body, Sammy realized that he was in deep. But that didn’t stop him from spending the night at Gypsy’s place bragging about the job.

Gypsy hunkered over a dildo in the parlor, checking out the pictures of Jerry. She ground it in real good. Sammy was cooking flapjacks in the kitchen. He figured he’d cook some up just right and bring them on in to the weird scene that Gypsy was plying in the parlor. Maybe it would do her some good.

“You’ve got to eat,” said Sammy and set the plate of heavily buttered and lightly syrup-ed golden flapjacks on the bed in front of Gypsy.

Gypsy gazed at each picture in a stack of Polaroid’sÒ she held in her left hand, flipping through the stack with alarming speed and only using her thumb. In here right hand, she worked the dildo, and you’ll have to believe me when I tell you she was a pro.

Oh, but the fingers of scent eventually tickled her smell buds with not only the rank beauty of her own horny funk, but also pointed toward a new odor, whose memories in early childhood were filled with fantastic distance, despite their hungry dark and sleepy eyes: flapjacks.

Gypsy came in a torrent.

She sank down elbows-first over the now even moister flapjacks; she dove in. The dewy sweat that covered her entire body began to evaporate in a gentle breeze from the parlor window, and the various linger-ables had their day.

“I can’t believe you had to kill the jerk over these.” Gypsy mumbled, tossing the pix aside and her mouth stuffed with flapjacks.

“You can’t believe I had to kill? Are you shitting me? Is that all you have to say? I kill this fucking guy, come over here, you grab the pix and start friggin’ yourself as soon as I walk in the door. Then I cook and now... I’m movin’ to Reno. I’m sick of this shit.”

Date Written: April 11, 2002
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 5

04/7/2004 qualcomm (5):
07/2/2004 TheBuyer (5): Yes, Mr. Snow. Hell yes.
10/19/2004 qualcomm: author, i don't quite believe you when you tell me she was a pro.
10/19/2004 Mr. Joshua (5): If it's good enough for the buyer, it's good enough for me.
02/1/2005 Cyrus (5): excellent picture quality in this. I could actually see the flapjacks.
02/23/2007 Master Bates (5): 'I’m movin’ to Reno. I’m sick of this shit.' Yowr!
02/23/2007 qualcomm: hey, pancakes!
05/8/2009 Jon Matza (5): Seminal.
05/12/2009 Litcube (5): This was directed by Quentin Tarantino.