Bop in the Diner

Went to lunch then all ‘cause that though the big Otto was readily placed and properly as well, the “Horse” was late. So, she leaned over at work on her thing still causing the large fat bellied dashingmen aproned about all around here there and all to go ‘round her.

You know “Hors”ie? That guy over there? Out the end of the counter?

No. Just see yon one-woman waitstaff operating by magical means. Also. As over and as well as the “Horse” was late the Otto sat nearly winging down a dashman wielding plateloads arrayed down both its arms how does it. How do they. Do they do. Or how will it—shucks one more time try—eh hey, will he do anything at all upon arrival.

She wrote down circularly to the casual observer, thus the Sacred Marriage of the Sun and Earth, personated by the priest and his wife, is celebrated as a charm to ensure the fertility of the ground—around ‘bout Lent’s glass plated thick dessert case protecting shelves of big bulgedup layercakes. She pulled back her pen momentarily glad to have nailed it. As opposed to her other permanently shifted day-waitress-self, who agitated over the late state of her best critic.

The size of the missing wedges of cake from even the smallest in the dessert shelves are impossibly huge. Uh, ut—the Otto across. How dare. Dare he yes. It’s a secret, my secret, and, it is important—so much more than any small one like you, and—just try to get it out of me.

A scar on the third tile out her toetip pulled her revealing blackcrumbs spread out underfoot. Not on my plate, he reasoned up. Not on my plate not my problem.
The papers on the counter drew her back thank God yes, she brushed a lock from her face glad to recall for the fifth time today that she’s still on the way toward completion of her research toward her reward. And that shoveling widemouthed bottomfeeders under development higher than any cloud will someday keep every floor spotfree. Very good, very—and for the same purpose, on the principle of homoeopathic magic, the people indulge in licentious orgy—fine.

Great bins of crumbs to fill some megabulker.

But, Otto. Pen-tap.

I’m still better than you, Miss Missus Coffee hound—

Pen-tap over pen pen. Tap.

Steaming hot chicken dinners served homestyle all glistening off the bone.

But. There. Look.


“Horse” is arriving in the far door. That’s us. But. And would not have to hold her breath until back up. She waved him over. But. From getting the pen. But. “Horse” paused at the door to slip off his jacket and. The Akikuyu of British East Africa worship the snake of a certain river. But. The rattle of the loosely bolted coat rack shimmered invisible about “Horse”’s form. At intervals of several years they marry the snake-god to women. But. The light jacket caught awkwardly—but especially to young girls—“Horse” held in the rattling ‘til it came right. He turned and she waved again, more lightly since he saw her. But. Here he came—‘cause of this who cares, really. But. He closed the distance with a smile. She stopped caring thusly as he said he did say.


Hey, how you doing, glad I hit on your shift. So. What is up?

—but you don’t care really. My trouble, well—well you got enough—

Ah, not much. Glad you came in past the rush. It was heavy today.

Bushed I bet, eh?

—step forward once still can’t tell which step forward twice—

Ah, yes! Bushed as shit!

—still can’t tell which why—

Eh. Nicely put. How ‘bout a coffee?


Sure. But it’s stale. I’ll do a fresh one. Got time?

Nothing but.

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