decided that it was a mistake and we wouldn’t be eating here. Still, the post-apocalyptic ‘Flo’ placed a laminated sheet in front of us. Written on it were the two choices that this place had: Snake Soup and Judge’s Stew.
As the waitress-from-hell was getting us our complimentary glass of water—just as the sheet promised at the bottom in writing in what looked like the only thing that didn’t get changed daily—I took a look at the other patrons. They all seemed far too interested in Sam. I noticed one gaunt man in particular. He stuck out because of all the folds of skin hanging around his torso. Currently the guy looked to weigh no more than one hundred fifty pounds tops. However, he must have easily weighed over three hundred pounds before. (I think I now know why Jared from Subway never did bathing suit ads.) Somebody who loses that much fat that quickly doesn’t lose the stretched out skin.
When I turned back, our water was being set before us. I tried to ignore the beige hue. Then Eric asked the sixty-thousand-dollar question.
“What is Judge’s Stew?”
“Trial two days ago for a pair of fellas that got a bit too rough with one of Madam Judy’s working girls. Judge found them guilty and sentenced them to hangin’.”
“You mean…?” I tried to ask, but couldn’t say the words.
“Can’t be wastin’ perfectly good meat these days, little Missy,” she croaked.
Okay. I probably come off a bit snooty with a statement like “she croaked.” So, I’ll leave it to you. Did you ever know a chain-smoker? I’m talking lighting the next one with the one still dangling from their lips. That kind of chain-smoker. Okay. So the chain-smoker’s voice would sound as smooth as Sinatra if compared to this waitress.
Still think I’m being a bitch?
Now, you’d think that’d been enough. You’d think that Eric would have taken my glare, raised eyebrows, and not so subtle tilt of my head towards the road out front that would take us away from this roadside circle of Dante’s Inferno .
Nope. The big dummy ordered the Snake Soup. Personally, I think he did it on purpose to screw with me.
Saturday, May 8
Her name is Tricia Maio (pronounced like mayo short for mayonnaise). She used to be a dancer. Judging by her body, I bet she made a fortune off of desperate, middle-aged men. Seriously, I’m very hetero, but she made my tummy tingle. Oh…and Eric? Not so much as a batted eyelash.
Anyways, we met Tricia at a ransacked old gas station sitting off the well-covered-by-sand highway. There was an intact off ramp that we decided was as good as any to search for the possibility of camping out for the night. Imagine our surprise when we peeked through the busted out front windows to discover a naked lady hanging her clothes over a small fire concealed behind the checkout counter.
She’d been in a nasty fight with a small pack of zombies earlier in the day. She’d washed the worst of the gore from her clothes in an old, yellow, plastic mop bucket that she’d found in a closet.
When I’d asked about the water, she told me that there was a small spring just out back that drains into a pond that has two large concrete pipes at the lowest end. She’s pretty certain that they lead to a nearby reservoir a few miles away.
I lent her some of my clothes so that she wouldn’t have to stand around naked in front of strangers. I’m not sure who I was trying to make feel better. Still, that led to the obvious question.
“Where the hell is the rest of your stuff?”
She said that a small herd of a couple hundred zombies caught her off guard. She was camped out in some random apartments. She had to leave her backpack and could only bring what she could carry in the pockets of her heavy field jacket. She escaped by climbing up on the roof—which couldn’t have been that easy considering that she had to use a piece of metal pipe to bust a hole through it when she climbed into the overhead crawl space.
As the waitress-from-hell was getting us our complimentary glass of water—just as the sheet promised at the bottom in writing in what looked like the only thing that didn’t get changed daily—I took a look at the other patrons. They all seemed far too interested in Sam. I noticed one gaunt man in particular. He stuck out because of all the folds of skin hanging around his torso. Currently the guy looked to weigh no more than one hundred fifty pounds tops. However, he must have easily weighed over three hundred pounds before. (I think I now know why Jared from Subway never did bathing suit ads.) Somebody who loses that much fat that quickly doesn’t lose the stretched out skin.
When I turned back, our water was being set before us. I tried to ignore the beige hue. Then Eric asked the sixty-thousand-dollar question.
“What is Judge’s Stew?”
“Trial two days ago for a pair of fellas that got a bit too rough with one of Madam Judy’s working girls. Judge found them guilty and sentenced them to hangin’.”
“You mean…?” I tried to ask, but couldn’t say the words.
“Can’t be wastin’ perfectly good meat these days, little Missy,” she croaked.
Okay. I probably come off a bit snooty with a statement like “she croaked.” So, I’ll leave it to you. Did you ever know a chain-smoker? I’m talking lighting the next one with the one still dangling from their lips. That kind of chain-smoker. Okay. So the chain-smoker’s voice would sound as smooth as Sinatra if compared to this waitress.
Still think I’m being a bitch?
Now, you’d think that’d been enough. You’d think that Eric would have taken my glare, raised eyebrows, and not so subtle tilt of my head towards the road out front that would take us away from this roadside circle of Dante’s Inferno .
Nope. The big dummy ordered the Snake Soup. Personally, I think he did it on purpose to screw with me.
Saturday, May 8
Her name is Tricia Maio (pronounced like mayo short for mayonnaise). She used to be a dancer. Judging by her body, I bet she made a fortune off of desperate, middle-aged men. Seriously, I’m very hetero, but she made my tummy tingle. Oh…and Eric? Not so much as a batted eyelash.
Anyways, we met Tricia at a ransacked old gas station sitting off the well-covered-by-sand highway. There was an intact off ramp that we decided was as good as any to search for the possibility of camping out for the night. Imagine our surprise when we peeked through the busted out front windows to discover a naked lady hanging her clothes over a small fire concealed behind the checkout counter.
She’d been in a nasty fight with a small pack of zombies earlier in the day. She’d washed the worst of the gore from her clothes in an old, yellow, plastic mop bucket that she’d found in a closet.
When I’d asked about the water, she told me that there was a small spring just out back that drains into a pond that has two large concrete pipes at the lowest end. She’s pretty certain that they lead to a nearby reservoir a few miles away.
I lent her some of my clothes so that she wouldn’t have to stand around naked in front of strangers. I’m not sure who I was trying to make feel better. Still, that led to the obvious question.
“Where the hell is the rest of your stuff?”
She said that a small herd of a couple hundred zombies caught her off guard. She was camped out in some random apartments. She had to leave her backpack and could only bring what she could carry in the pockets of her heavy field jacket. She escaped by climbing up on the roof—which couldn’t have been that easy considering that she had to use a piece of metal pipe to bust a hole through it when she climbed into the overhead crawl space.
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