“Uh, yes. I’ll have the Bottomless Brickpasta, thanks.”

“How would you like that cooked, sir?”

“…”

“Rare, medium, well?”

“Well…?”

“Excellent. I’ll take your menus and can I start anyone off with an appeteazer?”

{From the right} “Why don’t we start off with a brisketcase and insulintinis all around?” {Nods around the table}

“Alrighty, I’ll have all that out to you shortly.” He nodded vigorously — nearly shaking his congealed hair-mass into warring factions.

Menu leaves the hand; nearest blaring screen captures attention. Drumming, horns, marching: triumphant war footage. Disconnect — screams from the bar — another channel, same story.

Empty glasses form a sugar circle. A barren brisketcase on display wafts to the busy waiter.

“Everythingokhere? Good.”

A roar starts with a murmur and burns from booth to booth: a menacing vibration. It’s in the air, unmistakable. Blood drips in the communal voice, but a commercial rings the belly gong. Silver clank, glass clink, crack, crunch, slap, slurp, hutt hutt — hike.

Brickpasta arrives safely encrusted in an amber wave of seven grains. Steam rises from its molten beefcake center; wavy mutli-cheese layers glisten in the dim barlight. Plop, plop go the sides — marinara gurgles out the seams, splashing toward pre-soiled shirtsleeves. A wetnap, rolaids, and aspirin breathe carefully in prepared pockets. A branded crest adorns the side of the ceramic dish: BRICKPASTA: More Than a Meal. Coming soon to a freezer near you.

“Howwaseverything? Can I interest ya’ll in dessert?”