AcmeShorts

"Bring me more pork loin, more wine, more lobster bisque!" he cried, his face flushed scarlet, his bib askew and smeared with juice, sweat and dribble, and I thought: you fat fuck, you glistening toad, I will not bring you anything else, pig -- but of course I scampered off to the kitchen to put the order in. This guy was a real fucking piece of work. Fat as shit; always ate alone yet insisted on a four-top; forever demanding that we turn the music down. He slurped his soup like a donkey at a trough. I was sure that one day the guy would ask me to bring him a bucket, just like in the Monty Python movie, and rain vomit all over the restaurant.

I found myself growing more enraged. The bell rang, the bisque was up; I knew what I had to do. I snuck the soup into the employee bathroom, took a piss, then a shit -- a real stinker, long, lean, and cocoa-brown, shot-through with yellow and green striations. I stuck a whisk in the toilet bowl and whipped the piss-shit cocktail into a frothy brown lather; it looked like a chocolate egg cream. I ladeled a healthy scoop of the mixture into the soup. I had done good work. I had a cigarette. I jerked off -- new waitress, Israeli, "actress," purple thong -- and added a dollop of spoonkle to the steaming bisque. It bobbed at the bowl's edge for a couple of seconds, did a coquettish little wiggle, and slid into the depths. I was ready now.

Within three minutes, it was all over. The soup was delivered; the fatso was convulsed and fairly drenched in his own puke; I had slipped out the back door and broken into a jolly canter, heading for home, when I was tackled from behind, and four men were upon me, blinding me with blows, and I was tasting my own blood, and I was handcuffed -- for this was 1911, and the repulsive cow-pig at table 12 was William Howard Taft, and I was remanded to Sherman Prison, where I am currently awaiting trial on attempted assasination charges, and here, with a tiny O'Henryesque flourish, ends this short-short (and I know only the petty and small-minded among you will dock it stars for its time-warp twist, or for the "meta-" self-consciousness here displayed); and I remain,

Ever,

Jacky Jew