Their food came after what seemed a universe-erasing eternity, during which time Grady babbled on in the background of the relative merits of Johnny Cash versus Willie Nelson and other vital subjects of pop culture, while Charles watched the parking lot lights (and those of occasional passing cars) grow halos and streak like comets across his field of vision.
The bug waitress had now grown scaly claws, the blue veins on the backs of said reptilian appendages pulsing. Grady clapped his hands together and licked his lips like a cartoon character as he picked up knife and fork to attack his tuna melt, the shredded fish concealed under a sweaty mountain of Swiss cheese, the entire mess resting on the bedrock of rye.
“Dig in, man,” Grady said, gesturing to the ice cream and p...
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