The Fork

“There’s something on my fork, waiter.”

The man with the long face gestures towards the waiter to move closer.

“Look there, waiter. Right up close. There’s something on my fork.”

The long-faced, musky-smelling man has the fork laid on the tablecloth with the prongs facing upwards.

“See, waiter? There’s something on my fork. Look closer.”

The waiter suspiciously advances. The customer is getting a little pushy.

“You won’t see it, waiter, unless you look really, really close.”

The waiter doesn’t want to play along. He offers the customer a new fork.

“No waiter, I don’t want a new fork, I just want you to see what’s on the fork I already have. Here, look closely.”

The waiter, with many tables to serve, practically brushes his nose against the fork to get it over and done with. The customer hides his sinister eyes behind his thin fringe. “Too close!”

With a swift movement he brings down his fist hard against the upturned, blunt end of the fork, launching the pointy end straight into the waiter’s left eye. The contact is good. The eyeball sticks. The waiter barely has time to shriek before his eyeball is liberated from its socket.

The smelly, thin-haired man jumps from his chair with glee. He darts out through the door before anyone has the initiative to stand in his way. None of the other patrons know what’s going on. “Did he not pay his bill?” “Did that man hit the waiter?” “What happened?” The chatter rises as the waiter crawls out the back clutching his face.

Meanwhile, the smelly man heads home, fork held firmly in hand. He’s excited like a toddler with a lollipop. He thinks through the layout of his apartment. The gherkin jar atop the refrigerator is full. The jam jar on the bookshelf is only for blue-eyes. The brown-eye jar is on top of the piano, and there’s just enough room for this one.

The mayonnaise jar is completely empty though. There is much work to be done.

T.

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