Order of Fries

“I don’t like coffee.”

Kit’s glassy eyes stared down into her mug.

“Seems like something that would have deterred you from ordering it then.” Poppy poured a seventh sugar packet into her own mug.

Kit looked up and pushed her thick, blue glasses back up her nose.

“It just seems like the thing people do in diners. Drown their sorrows in a cup of ol’ joe, while neon lights flicker through a gentle rain outside. The patrons all nestled in a cozy blanket of loneliness, together, but separated by miles of life.”

Poppy arched a pink eyebrow. “Booze really brings out the poet in you.”

Kit gave a cluck of reproach and sipped at her black coffee, face twisting unhappily.

A girl with black pigtails strolled over and leaned across the top of a booth. The yellow and pink Iggy’s Diner uniform clashed horribly with her personality. The nametag read Jennife, though it was most likely meant to read Jennifer. In the end, it was irrelevant, because the girl’s name was Miki.

Miki glanced at Kit.

“You don’t like coffee.”

Kit huffed. “Believe me, I know.”

Miki’s eyes jumped to Poppy, who shrugged and waved a dismissive hand.

“So, who’s Jennife, and what did you do with her body?” Kit asked.

Miki hopped up onto the back of a blue vinyl booth and swung her heavy-soled boots.

“I got blood on my uniform, so I borrowed this from the lockers. It’s fine, Jen’s on a medical leave. Surgery.”

“Serious?”

“Plastic.”

“Ah.”

Poppy and Kit’s server wandered back, looking as tired as the wrinkled cardigan he wore.

Miki grinned fangs. “You look dead, Fred.”

Fred squinted at Miki, unamused. “Funny, you work on that long?”

Miki shrugged delicate shoulders. From across the diner, a large man in a trench coat built for four waved his mug. Miki held up a thumb.

“Coming, Mr. Mstislav.”

Fred sighed and rubbed at his unshaven, grayish face.

“You know what you want?”

Kit seemed to have forgotten about the menu, so Poppy pointed to a few things, and Fred took the menus away.

Kit yawned and stretched out across the table, her sequin top scratching against the linoleum. She flicked at an empty creamer. Behind her, outside the streaked glass, the subtle sounds of a city at 2AM could be heard. A car crashed in the distance, followed by some shouts that faded away as sirens drew near.

“Is it much longer?” she asked.

Poppy cracked her neck and shrugged out of her jacket, revealing the peach blouse and dark, smooth skin beneath. She shoved the jacket next to the giant purse by her side.

“Nah.”

An amorphous shape at the bar demanded more syrup in a slurred, bubbling voice. Miki stomped out from the kitchen, glaring her red eyes.

“Mr. Meeps, I’ve already told you to calm down once tonight. Don’t make me get the Manager,” Miki snapped, slamming down a full carafe of syrup in front of the mass.

A dejected Mr. Meeps reached for the syrup with a limp tentacle.

Miki caught Poppy’s eye and mimed a theatrical sigh. Poppy sipped her coffee to hide her smile.

The door to the diner was suddenly thrown open, the metal frame rattling angrily, the welcome bells tinkling cheerfully. Four young men fell in over each other, laughing louder than seemed necessary. They collapsed into a corner booth adjacent to Poppy and Kit, wet sneakers squeaking on the tile.

Poppy held her mug in her hands, smiling to herself, as Kit stole surreptitious looks at the young men. Fred meandered by with menus.

“Yo! Hi! We want nachos!...Please!” One of the young men pulled his baseball hat backwards to reveal a smiling face, flushed and drunk.

Fred sighed and pulled out a pad of paper from his cardigan pocket.

“And hash browns!”

“And coffees!”

“And pancakes!”

“And girls!”

“Jerry, they don’t serve girls.”

Jerry pushed up his sunglasses and squinted in thought for a moment.

“Alright, then boys!”

“And milkshakes!”

Fred listlessly wrote down what he could decipher and left. He reappeared in a moment to bring Poppy and Kit their food.

Kit’s eyes drew away from the young men with an eager gleam as Fred plopped down French toast, spaghetti, a burger, and onion rings. The aroma of diner food wafted across the booths, seeping into clothing and nostrils.

Poppy poured a generous portion of syrup across her French toast as Kit began to suck up spaghetti.

“Yo, man, that smells so good!” Jerry shouted to the world.

Poppy and Kit looked up to see the young men staring over at them hungrily.

Kit picked up and onion ring.

“You want an onion ring?” she asked in a bright voice.

One of the guys nodded eagerly, so she tossed it over, greasy breading falling away in midair. He caught it and munched happily, his envious friends looking on.

“I’m Brett!” Brett said, mouth full of onion.

Kit giggled. “Hi, I’m Kit. This is Poppy.”

Poppy held up her mug in greeting and went back to her French toast.

The glass door swung open again, this time silently on wary hinges. Not even the bells jingled for the new arrivals. Two tall beings flowed in, dressed in dark robes that hid their faces. They sat themselves down at the counter by the TV and began to watch the game. Miki flounced over but was greeted with angry hisses.

“Hey, buddy, I’ll give you a minute, but ya’ll have to order something,” Miki snapped, “Don’t make me get the Manager.”

“Coffeeee,” came the hiss.

Miki rolled her eyes and went to get the coffee pot.

Fred slid out from the kitchen, bearing the weight of a great tray on his already exhausted shoulders. His appearance was greeted by whoops and cheers from the young men, until he walked past their table and deposited the tray in front of Mr. Mstislav. The young men groaned in agony and collapsed into the vinyl.

“Hey, heads up!” Kit tossed another onion ring, and the young men scrambled to catch it.

Poppy watched the two cloaked figures at the counter as they argued together in hushed tones. Mr. Meeps got up from the seat with a sway and placed some cash on the counter.

“Goodnight, Mr. Meeps!” Miki called as the shape slithered out the front door. Mr. Meeps waved goodnight.

Miki picked up the slimy bill with a grimace. “I hate when he pays cash.”

“Serving girl, bring us fries,” one of the figures at the counter hissed.

Miki blinked her red eyes in disbelief and looked around the diner before pointing to herself.

“Oh! You mean me?” With an angry twirl, Miki slammed open the doors to the kitchen.

Kit sighed and leaned back into the worn booth, patting her stomach happily.

“That was perfect,” she said with a smile.

Poppy was just finishing her French toast as Fred came back out with another tray, heavily laden with fried foods. He bore the young men’s cheers with barely restrained exasperation before going to lean against the register, phone in hand. The young men took a break from cheering only for risk of choking.

Poppy swallowed the last of her coffee and turned to Kit.

“You done?”

Kit nodded.

Poppy pulled on her jacket and grabbed her giant purse. She slid out of the booth and went to stand in front of the counter, facing the two hooded figures.

“Rash and Ribs Rigoletti, you are both sentenced to death by the People’s Occult Order and Finance.”

The Rigoletti brothers reared up with violent hisses, their cloaks drawing back to reveal rotten, mottled flesh and large, toothy mouths. Jerry screamed.

Poppy drew an automatic crossbow from her purse and fired two bolts, which sang across the diner and sunk into the corpse-like bodies. The red ends of the bolts began to beep.

Rash and Ribs looked down, horror written across their bony faces, and exploded, just as Miki came out of the kitchen with their fries.

Smoke and vaporized body parts hung in the silence. Miki’s mouth fell open in shock, her body well covered in blood and bits of Rash.

Miki looked up angrily at Poppy.

“Goddammit, Poppy! There goes another uniform.”

Poppy slid the metal crossbow back into her bag with a smile. The young men all pushed back into the booth as far as they could, Jerry’s arms protecting his nachos.

Kit scooted out of the booth and clicked over to Brett on red and white polka-dot pumps.

“Hey, this is my number, if you ever wanna get like a drink or something.” Kit handed Brett a napkin with some lettering. Brett took it with a shaking hand, his smile looking rather pained.

“Sorry about the mess, Miki, Fred,” Poppy said, pulled out her wallet. She handed Fred a few hundred dollars and opened the diner door with a tinkling of bells.

Miki wiped at Jennife’s uniform with a rag. Mr. Mstislav gave a harrumph and held up his mug again.

“Hold on, Mr. Mstislav, I’m brewing a fresh pot. This one has an eyeball in it.”

Fred gave a wearied sigh and went to get a mop.