7/22/14

Pork Snorting Dave
By Ross Peterson


Pork Snorting Dave trembles, looks at the cash register and security cameras. He rubs the bill of his visor, itches his ear, his nose, his lips. He straightens his name-tag. "H-hey, Bruce," he says into the kitchen.
"What is it?" the fat fry cook says, pulling a basket from the grease vat.
"Y-you know w-what t-time uh, uh--"
"What time WHAT, motherfucker?"
"What t-time C-catherine's c-comin' b-back."
"Do I--" He slams the white paper bag full of fried chicken on the stainless steel cook's window. "FUCK . . . No." He takes off his apron, says: "I'm gonna smoke."
Pork Snorting Dave grabs the bag. "O-order fifty seven," he says, turning around, placing it on a plastic tray. "F-fifty seven."
A white haired woman walks to the counter. She stares at Pork Snorting Dave, who can't tell where her pupils begin and irises end.
She's probably a witch.
"A-anything e-else I can g-get for y-you, m-ma'am?"
She says nothing. He studies her leathery lips, her tight, wrinkled skin. He sees her hand as she takes the tray. He notices a silver ring on her left index finger, and Pork Snorting Dave has listened to enough Slayer to know: it's a pentagram ring. She hobbles to a table by the window with her fried chicken and potato.
"Okay," Dave whispers. Time for it: the presumed witch is his sole customer, Bruce smokes outside (cigarettes, crystal meth, and marijuana with 105 mg of crushed Vicadin in the bowl of his crack pipe), and Catherine has driven to the restaurant suppliers' to pick up the sour cream they've run out of.
Dave reaches his hand into his pocket for his phone. He takes it out, types the text message: "Now." A car door slams outside. Porky Stacy, Pork Snorting Dave's fiancee, comes through the glass doors, hip first, brandishing a .45, wearing a black ski-mask and mirrored sunglasses.
"Let's go, motherfucker!" she says, aiming at him, grimacing. Pork Snorting Dave opens the till, scoops up the cash. "H-h-here you go," he says. "D-d-don't h-hurt me." He's a shitty actor.
"Shut up," she says, tossing the money in a black garbage bag. She then runs to the parking lot, gets in Pork Snorting Dave's '94 Pontiac Grand Am, and drives off. Pork Snorting Dave looks at the old woman.
She sits, staring at her potato. He picks up his cell phone, begins to dial 9-1-1, but, seeing the presumed witch stand and approach the counter, pauses.
"Where's my sour cream?" the presumed witch hisses.
"W-what?"
"I . . . have a baked potato . . . and no sour cream."
"Uh-uh-uh, w-we're ou-out of sour cream, m-ma'am. I'm sorry. B-b-but th-the m-m-manager went t-to g-get some m-more, a-a-and sh-she'll b-b-be right b-back."
She turns, whispering Latin.
Bruce comes back inside. He walks into the kitchen, picks his apron up off the floor.
"B-bruce, man. Y-you're n-never gonna believe what j-just h-happened. W-we g-got robbed, man."
"Fuck!"
"A-a-at g-gunpoint. I-I'm g-gonna c-call the p-police."
He drops his apron. "I--I gotta get the fuck outta here, man!"
Pork Snorting Dave is about to dial 9-1-1. Bruce slams the back door.
"I-I'm g-gonna c-call the p-police now," he says to the presumed witch.
She turns her head, opens her mouth, exposes an accordion of sharp, feral teeth. She's still speaking in Latin. Then a flame springs from the grill in the kitchen, igniting a grease fire. "Shit!" Pork Snorting Dave says. And from the flame-enveloped kitchen, a grease tornado hurtles at him, strikes him and his polyester polo shirt melts into his flesh and he sinks to the linoleum. His body turns red and pink and he drips goo, his name-tag infuses with his pectoral.
But at least he and Porky Stacy have enough money to buy some more pork now.


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Ross Peterson is a writer from Montana. His work has appeared in Pulp Modern, Yellow Mama, Bong is Bard, and Ambannon Books' In Mint Condition 2014 (forthcoming). He also reviews low budget horror movies for Horrornews.net, and dabbles in VHS collecting.


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