Slappy’s Diner

Remember at the beginning of the story, when M&M handed you the crumpled receipt from Slappy’s Diner? Was that foreshadowing? Has everything come full circle? Why don’t you just go belly up to the counter and find out.

You (to the stereotypical downtrodden, middle-aged waitress behind the counter): “Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And an Irish coffee, please. And for the love of all that is holy please wash your hands first.”

Waitress: “Will do, Figgypudding. What brings you to this crap-heap?”

You: “I’m searching for the hot, adulterous wife. You’re poor, so you probably don’t even know who that is.”

Waitress (tossing the pre-made sandwich, which has probably been sitting out for at least nine hours under a heat lamp, onto the counter): “Thank you for using stereotypes to judge me. As a matter of fact, I am poor, and I don’t know who that is. Us poor people only concern ourselves with rat birth control and whooping-cough outbreaks. That’s what poor people do.”

You: “That’s why I’m glad I was born rich. It must be horrible to be poor. Anyways, that sandwich tasted like crotch sweat spread on urine-soaked cardboard. I’m out of here.”

Waitress: “That might have something to do with the fact that we rub all the bread on the sweatiest parts of our bodies, because that is what poor, downtrodden, middle-aged waitresses do to spite people like you who come in here. Oh, and just to make sure your trip here wasn’t completely pointless, I suppose I have to offer up some kind of clue to help you on your journey. Maybe even two of them, so that you must decide.”

You: “That actually would help a lot.”

Waitress: “I figured. You can either go to the meeting of the Prominent Bouffants, or go to the record store next door, because I hear that the clerks there are rather gossipy.”

So, like the downtrodden, middle-aged waitress said, you can either:

Go to the meeting of the Prominent Bouffants.

Go to the record store next door.

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