Vernon Kennedy is only very slightly wired at a red pleather diner booth
and hungry enough to fall off the vegetarianism wagon for the third time
this week, so he doesn’t feel bad for the pig that died for this yet. His
'Rolex’ reckons it’s 3:17am. He usually wakes up about 2 hours and
43 minutes from now. Somehow he figures the universe probably isn’t
watching for his grease-laden sins at this time of night. Between the
gaps in the blinds, it’s completely dark out beyond the filmy yellow light
of streetlamps and a distant flickering ‘$$$ 4 GOLD’ sign blinking
spasmodically like a poked eye.
“C’mon, partner,” he says this half-muffled mid-mouthful, poking at an
obscene dripping heap of cheese and fries and bacon. “It’s like, good
for you. You not hungry or something? Not feeling it? A little grease
never hurt anyone, you know what I’m saying? Food for the soul.”
He stops to lick orange grease off his thumb, vaguely feverish, like
coke residue. Beside his elbow there is a sickly pink milkshake in a
tall precarious glass, so he sticks his finger in it and swipes whipped
cream off the top. He blinks dumbly behind a pair of Prada shades,
and decides that Arthur still isn’t looking all that impressed for some
reason. It’s probably a writer thing.
“You know, I’ve eaten all kinds of shit, man. One time I paid like six
hundred bucks to eat sashimi off a naked lady. Art thing. Not a sex
thing. But this, this right here is the shit.”
There’s more earnest surprise that Vernon is actually eating the suspicious mess rather than any disgust. It smells questionable and when there’s trails of bright orange left behind Arthur makes a face, decidedly sitting back and clutching the chipped ceramic coffee cup as a last hope. “I don’t think that much cheese is physically safe.” Hungry? Yes, Arthur was practically starving, but the moat of grease had him questioning getting any closer to the plate than necessary, at least now yet. He’s caught watching people outside, a woman in worn fishnets and a sag to the bun in her hair arguing animatedly with some guy that looked like he’d had one two many of the cheese piles plate and all.
“Here I thought soul food had actual taste, not just,” a generous motion towards the plate is offered and he grimaces through a long sip of over burnt coffee. He does however give the food a second glance and contemplates how much it might hurt to eat something like that. After sitting through Vernon’s long-winded explanation to the optimal vegetarianism lifestyle it struck him as oddly endearing seeing him elbow deep in pork, cheese, and fries.
Arthur taps the fork thoughtfully against the plate, ignoring the shouting growing louder outside. “Six hundred huh? And just for raw fish. I think you paid too much, friend.” The mess on his plate has decided to congeal and begin to solidify into one disturbing brick as he sinks his fork into the food. He’s trusted the other man so far there and come out relatively unscathed (and without the need for a tetanus shot).
It’s unsettling how the fries no longer crunch now that they’re soaked through in cheese grease when he finally takes a bite. “Alright,” he mumbles over the mouthful, chewing thoughtfully, “It’s not terrible.” Pointing his fork at Vernon, it takes effort to ignore the bright orange stains against the metal. “But why would you pay six hundred for raw fish? Aside from the naked lady maybe giving you her number sounds like you got jipped buddy.”
Waving down the waitress Arthur braves her withering stare to gesture at the pepto bismol looking milkshake Vernon’s been letting get soupy. “Could I get one of those in vanilla? Uh with extra whipped cream please.” He offers her a polite smile as she purses her own, clicks her pen, then turns to Vernon with a tired sigh, “Anything for you too, kid?”
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