Taken Out Back Behind The Dumpster
An erotic tale by RORA
The Saturday afternoon sun hung low over the highway, casting a soft golden glow throughout traffic. Mid-spring had settled in, and the smell of the first grass cuttings from earlier that day was wafting everywhere. It was dinner time, not as many people go out on Saturday as they do Friday and Saturday, but when one lives near the city, even a small city (or a large town, depending on who you ask) things are still kept open later than you would get anywhere else.
Yes, even on this highway, it was not bad...
Then came the
roar
of a motorcycle engine somewhere down the drag.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-RRR-RRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
The sound swelled, loud and unapologetic, shattering the Saturday energy as it reverberated off echos of the highway and rattled the nerves of anyone within earshot. Cars moved out of the way as the source of the noise barreled into view.
Tearing it down the highway was a man with a red motorcycle helmet covering his face, his average gorilla frame hunched forward as he guns the throttle.
His turn was coming up here soon, and he's on the other side of the highway.
"Ay I'm hungry, let's get some grub goin' here."
He thinks to himself.
He accelerates, threading his way through four lanes of traffic with reckless abandon, narrowly avoiding a collision, all to go onto the exit ramp for a diner called Kate's.
The man pulls up to a weathered building that has seen decades of Northeastern winters. Its exterior is clad in stainless steel panels, once gleaming but now dulled by time, with faint streaks of rust creeping along the edges where the metal meets the brick foundation. The big neon sign out front, simply reading "Wolfe's Cafe" in red script, flickers on and off from time to time. There's a glowing fake full moon on the sign. Underneath it is a small text that reads "Breakfast - all day!"
He could have chosen to park near the diner. But he's not all about that. He's going to park next to the dumpster. He steps off the bike and takes off his helmet.
He had the wild, scrappy look of a young man who'd spent more time dodging trouble than seeking it out. His hair was a greasy mop of dark blonde, slicked back haphazardly. He had long sideburns that he takes good care of. His face is long and pointy, with a healed broken nose and freckles on his face. His eyes though are covered by thick, black sunglasses, with a cool mountain dew green sheen. He wore a japanese text open shirt with a white tank top underneath that showed off wiry arms. His jeans were torn at the knees, not by design but by hard living.
He takes a hit from his custom vape box. Engraved on it is the name "GARY". It's 'fruity melon mintfuck' flavor. Fucking disgusting.
A man's gotta eat
, he says to himself, swaggering inside.
The diner's double doors creaked open, wafting a mix of breakfast, lunch, dinner, and all-day coffee into Gary's nose. The joint wasn't fancy, never had been, but it carried a worn-in charm with a whiff of something supernatural. Photos lining the walls told the story--years of visitors, even a famous foodie, had passed through.
Behind the register was even more knick knacks showing off strange glass art and baubles from Europe, with some bottles of standard liquors lining the wall, mixing into the art work.. Next to the register was a display case full of desserts, mainly pies and cakes.
The guy behind the register is a bland, forgettable host who might as well own the place--nods at Gary. He's as ancient as the creaky building itself. With a quick hello, he shuffles Gary to an empty booth to wait for the waitress.
A few minutes passed. Gary is at the table, rapidly tapping his fingers. He knows what he wants.
"Yo, is dere a waitress coming, or what?" He said aloud.
It wasn't quite magic since there was a 45 second pause between him saying that and him making a frustrated groan at the 30 second mark. He was about to stand up and ask the old fogey, "What gives", but he felt a cold chill down his spine.
He gets the reply from the kitchen, it's loud, husky, and feminine.
"I'm coming."
The kitchen's OUT door swings open with a loud, odd creak--less a typical creeeak and more a low awooo. The diner sign's flickering neon lights briefly outline a curvy shadow in the doorway before she steps out.
She saunters to the table, fiery red curls spilling over her shoulders, catching the neon glow from the window with every bounce. Her waitress uniform, a tight pastel-pink dress with an apron, hugs her figure, the short hem flirting with her thighs as she moves. Her green eyes spark with a wild, untamed glint, simmering just under her weary exterior.
Gary couldn't help but to gawk at her as she bends over the table slowly and carefully to serve Gary some coffee. He was clearly both unmatched and outranked, and maybe a little intimidated by her massive sex appeal. He felt massively unprepared for the situation, but deep inside, the pervert within is practically screaming, "GO FOR IT, RETARD."
There was an awkward pause, before she took out the pad and paper and looked at Gary. There was no flirtation behind those eyes, nor was she hostile to him. But he can tell he is being sized up. He can tell, she can tell, he was trouble.
"Mm. Sorry for the wait, sir...can I take your order?"
He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts on how to approach the situation. Gary likes to think he's good at flirting, and maybe she has a funny side to her.
"Hey, are ya new around here? I have never seen ya work dis shift, Reds..."
"Maybe we've met, maybe we haven't. Now, please...can I take your order?"
"I would like the Grand Slam, ma'am." He asks with a playful chuckle. She writes it down, ignoring him. His stupid boy charms won't work here. But he's too stupid to figure that out.
"Sausage, Bacon, Ham okay?"
Gary gives a shrug, closing the menu and handing it back to her. "Yeah, dat sounds fine, all dat is fine, and cook da eggs sunny side up with the bacon in a smile."
She fixes her gaze on him, brow furrowing like he's a puzzle she can't crack. Behind his dumb sunglasses, their eyes lock anyway.
Two things hit him at once: she's older, and the way she is built up closer, she looks like she could mop the floor with him if he tries anything. She has muscle on her.
He swallows hard, right in her face. Her lips twitch, slowly curling up. Is she... smiling?
"Coming right up, sir" she says, her tone softening, less annoyed with the punk.
It's a small win in his head, but he's stumped...why's she so captivating? And why do the neon lights flicker the second she appears and walks away? And are those packs of dogs howling in the background?
Gary slouched into the booth, his wiry frame practically vibrating with hunger as the waitress set the steaming grand slam platter before him.
The plate was a glorious mess of diner experience: two eggs sunny side up, strips of crispy bacon, Slabs of Virginia ham and sausage links filling out the plate, their savory aroma hitting him like a punch. The pancakes, oh God, A stack of fluffy pancakes on the side too, topped with butter. Packets of syrup sit next to them.
That breakfast didn't stand a chance.
He snatched the fork like a weapon and plunged it into the eggs, yolk exploding over the bacon. With a grunt, he shoveled the gooey mess into his mouth, chewing loud, yellow flecks dotting his pointy chin. His other hand ripped into the sausage, teeth tearing off a chunk--grease streaking his lips as he devoured it, barely catching a breath. The pancakes got no mercy; he folded one, dunked it in syrup, and stuffed it in, a stray drip sliding down his neck to blotch his white tank top's collar.
"Fuckin' A, she knows how to feed a man," he muttered through a mouthful. The restaurant at this time has mostly cleared out, except for the waitress and Gary out in the front. The waitress was gathering trash to go into a big trash bag. The host had gone to the back.
The blinds are down--folks griped about the sign's flickering. It's definitely night, so Gary speeds up, gulping the remainder of the coffee to wash down his meal. She's probably itching to close up the diner, and he's not keen to test her temper.
Before he bolts though, he figures he'll take one last shot at catching her eye. The waitress swings by with the bill, tapping it with a claw-sharp nail to snap him out of his daze. Gary settles up, tosses in a tip, and flashes a grin, still high on the tasty grub. Without overthinking, he blurts out,
"Hey, Red, ya ever get bored 'round here and wanna make a dumb decision, gimme a shout."
He writes and slides a crumpled napkin with his number scribbled down on it across the table at her.
She looks at it, then at him, her green eyes narrowing slightly as the light flickers above her. He could have sworn her eyes glowed in the dark like an animal for just a second. Were those wolves howling in the background?
She blinks slowly, smirks, and with a low hum she replies,
"Hmph. Don't hold your breath,
pup
."
She slips the tip into her pocket without a word. Gary's now dead certain something's up, and a bit worried he's wading too deep. He slides his shades down, peering at her with honey-brown eyes, but can't quite get a beat on what's up with her.
Oh well. To him, this is a win. A win for some action later--doesn't matter who it is with.
Gary gets up and leaves the establishment...
April's moon hangs low and fat over the place. A swollen, amber orb bleeding through the night sky. It's casts sticky, honeyed sheen that dances with the flickering sign out front. The air's thick with grease and stillness.
What a shitty night to be hexed.
"Shit, maybe Red'll call." He muttered. She's still clawing at his head. His magical thinking has kicked in. Maybe, just maybe, if he thinks about it over and over again, something will happen?
