You can’t quite believe it can you? The sheer fucking audacity of it. This CUNT standing before you, looking down on you, expecting an answer to the kind of question that should normally end a person’s fucking life.
This american prick, with a tea towel on his arm and an expectant gaze, wondering why the hell it’s taking you so long to answer. Your right hand involuntarily reaches for the fork. The murderous possibilities of that move are far from obvious given that you’re in a hotel restuarant. If they had been our friend with the tea towel would have started waddling away as quickly as he fucking could.
Your other hand claws at the table top, gripping it ever tighter, in real danger of snapping it, such is your rage, as a million death fantasies run through your mind.
You’ve just been knocked out of the World Series of Poker Main Event for fuck’s sake – you just don’t need this fucking shit.
The Pain For You And Others Of WSOP Elimination
It would be dangerous to kill another hotel employee today though, especially in such a public arena as this. As that realisation goes through your head the waiter has no idea whatsoever that his life has probably just been saved. Your grip eases on the fork slightly but time still moves on so slowly, his question still doesn’t compute and your blood pressure remains sky high.
Your eyes narrow and your face reddens as you think back to the day’s first customer, a purple suited fuckwit telling you to have a great day as you stagger pissed and penniless between the Rio’s poker room and the lift. Have a great day indeed. HAVE A GREAT FUCKING DAY YOURSELF YOU PURPLE CUNT.
You don’t immediately realise that you’ve shouted that out loud, for the second time this morning too.
The braindead fucks sat around you are all staring but the waiter, although shocked, manages to keep it together, just emitting a little cough as he tries to bring you back to the question in hand. “Would you like your eggs over easy, SIR?”, he demands.
World Series Of Poker Death Throes
This interrogation is now so astonishing to you that you freeze in your chair. So many thoughts run through your head in so little time but they all come back to one outcome: a fork stabbed into the face of this wanker as many times as possible before the police shoot you in the head. This waiter now only ‘waits’ for certain death.
The arsehole has said his last words, and in a whiney, faggy, yank accent too – unlucky! You can finish him in a single second if you want, it just doesn’t have to be this second.
You’re a Terminator. You can’t be bargained with. You can’t be reasoned with. You don’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And you absolutely will not stop, ever, until your eggs have been cooked correctly and without any aggravating US phraseology.
You regain your composure. You finish your orange juice.You pick up the fork. The waiter dies.