The Dead Smile Forever
Perhaps it is narrow-minded assumption, but Sister Madly is of the opinion that a café which claims to be ‘Classic Americana’ should not be known for its Borscht.
Nor should it be called EAT.
Over the weekend, Sister Madly and the Professors ventured out to the countryside where the alpacas and wheat threshers freely roam, all in an attempt to find some color, maybe a waterfall, something that proved their autumn was to be more than a plague of stink bugs. Somewhere along the way, the Professors decided that they wanted iced tea- which, by the way, is code for wanting to play video poker, although they have yet to admit this. While the Professors have gotten Sister Madly to admit to a great deal of awkwardness, she has yet to achieve this same level of federal interrogation. Probably because she already knows the answer- or just doesn’t care.
But of all the Borscht joints, in all the towns, in all the world…
It wasn’t long after that the caravan happened upon a little shanty that looked as though it had been recently regurgitated- in fact, it looked like a lovely place to be murdered. If only it had a different name, as it would be terribly disappointing to be found murdered at a place called EAT. What grease is spared on the food was used to shine the floor, and approaching the counter was achieved through a painstaking ritual of geisha-shuffling and the occasional acrobatics. Sister Madly should have been amused by the fact that she could trace her name into the countertop.
You’re going to die here, aren’t you, Sister Madly? The Professors brought you here to die. This whole iced tea thing was a ruse- they brought here to die because you didn’t want to play Settlers of Catan last week. They brought you here to die because you refused to partake in their latest SEES Experiment, going so far as to slip out the back door when they weren’t looking. They didn’t like that very much.
At the counter was a surly ol‘ fella, looking as though they had just interrupted a fabulous coronary. His employer, no doubt, was of a most progressive mindset, as smiling appeared to be the only requirement for employment at EAT- whether or not you have teeth.
“Pick your poison.”
There‘s your proof, Sister Madly; at least you get to choose your method of involuntary disposal, even though it is cleverly disguised as customer service. He only has a spatula within reach, so if he‘s going to take you out with violence, it‘s not going to be for a few minutes anyhow. Might as well extend what’s left of your life by not consuming anything here at EAT, and who knows? You just might make it out alive. Should you get thirsty, there is that puddle out in the parking lot. At least it has a pretty rainbow from the oil slick.
The Professors, however, didn’t seem to mind the squalid conditions of EAT, nor did they seem to be in any hurry to leave- and perhaps none of this would have mattered, had not one of the Professors sat at the table ahead of the rest. You see, Sister Madly is quite use to sitting with her right side to the wall- the universe makes a little more sense when she does: there is peace, harmony, serenity and other beautiful words, all of which she is willing to embrace when her right side is to the wall.
So when the Professor took that place first, Sister Madly was at a total loss.
Instead of trying to explain the particulars of this latest cosmic rift- and having just doodled her name in the grease on the tabletop- Sister Madly decided to liven things up by washing her hands. Besides, if she was going to die in this place, she’d rather it be by a method that inspires sonnets, such as hideous dismemberment or strangulation, not by spontaneously combusting due to sitting with her left side to the wall.
Now, Sister Madly has been wrong a few times in her life, you all know that, but she was fairly certain that things couldn’t get much worse at EAT than what she had already encountered. That was before the washroom, and the less said about that, the better. Let’s just say, she knows where all the slaughtering takes place.
During her attempt to wash her hands without touching anything, which was no small feat, Sister Madly almost missed this little gem written across the mirror:
Forget the rules, if it makes you happy.
If that just doesn’t give every Mobile Slaughterer permission to carry out his trade.
Then again, who is Sister Madly to argue with the wisdom of lipstick poetry?
And who is Sister Madly not to have the last laugh if she can help it?
Le Sourire Mort Pour Toujours
If she’s going to die in that washroom, she wants every Mobile Slaughterer to know that her smile will be haunting them ever after.
She wants you to know that, too.
POST’S THEME SONG: Mack the Knife, Nick Cave