“Not now. Oh dear God, not now!” Of course, he said it out loud. He was tense for many reasons, so many; as tense as a tightly wound high E-string on the verge of snapping on a teenager’s Sears® electric guitar. Maxwell Donner was experiencing his first Tinder® date at the Applebee’s® in Tinley Park™.
Each word became more difficult to speak, requiring a long pause in between. “Son. Of. A! Bitch.”
His heartbeat quickened, moving up into his head. It became equally spastic and erratic, as if a band of beavers began to play bongos with their enthusiastic prehensile tails.
There was no looking back. The transformation had begun. Maxwell lurched forward, and convulsed, dry heaving on shaky knees. So much happening at once. For the briefest of moments, he wept foreseeing the shame if he lived through this.
His stomach expanded, popping the buttons on his flannel shirt. “Why?!” His rear end doubled in mass, ripping his jeans. All the while, his head shrunk down to half its original size. He had become The Moronic Schlub™. After much misunderstanding and misplaced jazz hands, this place would be completely destroyed.
Perhaps the most disturbing take away from this scene was how apathetic and unaware the fellow diners were. They were all so preoccupied with their “devices”. To think, if one person had paid attention, all of the ensuing carnage could have been averted.
Meanwhile, Sarah Gooding was miffed. She was at the Ruby Tuesday™ in Mokena®, downing her third Old Fashioned. She was so pissed off that her sweat turned to steam.