Imagine working nights at a shitty little 24-hour diner, just something to make ends meet, right?
You've got maybe three hours left of your shift, sitting behind the bar and attempting to slog through physics homework when the doorbell chimes. You glance up curiously, both of your usuals have already been through tonight, just to see him.
This giant, six foot fuck-off of a man, he has to duck to get past the small door of the diner. Covered in grime and what you hope is just red clay, you think today is the day you'll die in a robbery or something.
Only for him to sit at the farthest end of the bar with a grunt and just....wait.
For a moment, you consider dipping into the back and asking patty to make him leave. Instead, you grab the little notepad from your breast pocket and approach as though he were a wild animal "uh– night, sir. What can I get started for you?"
"You got omelets?" The man grunts, not bothering to take off his balaclava. When you nod, he drums his fingers on the counter "seventeen of those. Please."
"Fuckin' Seven–! Uh– seventeen, sir? Uhm. For an order that large, its policy to charge partial up front and–" you begin, mentally listening for patty in the back as you slowly realize he really could jump the bar and kill you if he wanted.
"Tha's fine." He cuts you off, shoving a hand into the pocket of his pants. You gape at the wad of cash he pulls out, held together with a rubber band. Half expecting him to count out the clear hundreds he has, it takes you a moment to react when he pushes the entire wad at you with a "an' however many sausages you got. And a milkshake. Vanilla. Please."
You take the wad, ring him up in stunned silence. "I'll...bring the first dishes out when they're done."
Patty nearly murders you when she gets the ticket, until you show her the cash. Far be it from you or her to turn down suspicious monet.
The guy eats silently, scarfs down all of the omelets and the sausages like it's nothing. You try not to stare too much while you pretend to work on your physics. But...christ. shouldn't he be worried about a heart attack? He must be like...forty or something. ugly lower half of his face and a rough voice says so at least.
When he's done, the man cleans up and stacks his plates neatly, doesn't say a word as he leaves.
But when you go to grab the last plate, you find another two hundred dollars with a little note of 'for uni. Study hard, kid.' And a shitty skull face next to it.
...you pocket the note and split the tip with patty, along with the excessive amount leftover from the roll he gave you.
You wonder if he'll ever be back.
[Pssttt. Wrote a little more]
prguitarman
titsay
origamiaround
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
