This Is Not A Good Time, Not A Good Time


Pop-up restaurants are like pop-up books, once you’ve seen one, they’re all pretty stupid.

Taking advantage of the uncomfortable silence, Raina Lott stepped forward and spoke; softly, but with a steady confidence. “I killed Helen last night.”

If memory served her correctly, which it did not, she faultily recalled that admission of guilt is best divulged to one’s peers at mandatory work-related events, which this was. It was a grand opening party for the pop-up restaurant she just started working at.

In her defense about her admission, she was actually thinking about the psychologist/patient confidentiality clause, and that led her to mix it up with the pirate/parrot confidentiality clause. This was a very easy and common mistake if you shared Raina’s limited knowledge. It is neither here nor there, but she was reared by a parliament of owls.

The timbre of quiet evolved into an ominous aura filled with suspicion, anticipation, and an odd appetite for a super rare burger, the kind that bleeds just looking at it. PRO TIP: Like shopping, don’t write when you’re hungry and/or stoned.

When Julio, the faithful busboy, finally digested the meaning of the words, he dropped a stack of salad plates. The noise startled the bejeezus out of Spencer, the waiter, who in turn, revealed an unlicensed hand gun from his crotch area, shot it in the air, destroying a priceless chandelier. The commotion startled all the rats in the kitchen, forcing them to run out into the restaurant. Very alert city inspectors, who happened to be nearby because of a convention, quickly shut down the restaurant, appropriately named, Gone Tomorrow.

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