Spitfire

Dawn was possibly the worst time to wake up and go places. Streetlights were lit up, shining down on the streets, with morning dew settled on the potted plants that sat outside and survived the summer heat. Aside from that, though, nothing was open. The neon lights were shut off this early, laying dormant until the sun set; there was hardly anyone out, most of them staying in and snoozing their little lives away.

It was the always the time that Frank got out of bed and got all his necessities done. If you're gonna run a diner, you needed to open up early for those who wanted a bite of an egg sandwich before biking or driving their butts to work to work their 8 hours. Early bird gets the worm and all that. It had it's downsides, though: to be anywhere near functional, he'd have to prep up a coffee kettle, wait at the table and drum his fingers until he heard the coffee boil, and pour himself an entire cup to be barely functional. Repeat for half of another cup to be completely awake. Frank was damn sure that the dark brew was going to kill him faster than the cigs would, but it was a necessary evil at this point.

In about 30 minutes, he was ready to roll, with a silver pistol holstered on his side. Frank closed the door behind him as he left and walked down the sidewalk,  keeping under the streetlights whenever possible. He passed by brick and wood apartments, the plain janes in a city full of ritz. Passed by rival diners, with their ever familiar yellow and red logos sitting outside. Passed by fast food restaurants, with the few early morning cars lined up like a conga line, drivers ready to order a bite and get on the road. A cool breeze  blew by him, rustling his hair and clothes, a welcome feeling when you live way out in the desert. Strip joints were unusually quiet, and there was the occasional mutant sitting outside, like those with giant hands and others with  eyes all over their faces, having a smoke or just enjoying the outdoors.

Quiet, overall. Frank liked quiet.

Wasn't quiet for long, though, as he heard a soft chuckle coming from one of the alleyways, He glanced over, hand moving automatically to the holster, index finger on the cylinder.  He could hear the footsteps of two, three... four people, and the sound of a pipe being dragged across the ground.

 As the group of men started surrounding him, Frank studied them further: one looked like a rat-nosed punk, 'round five feet tall. Another, 5'4'' and looked like he got run over by the ugly truck, with a face only a mother could love. Third guy looked like he was the leader, bit shorter than the ugly one, but with a fierce look in his eye, a lion-like mane of hair around him. And the last was a big guy, bald like a cue ball, and a tower of beef and muscle. All of them wore matching leather jackets and black clothes; cue ball head had the pipe, leader had a pistol, and Rat had a bat.

 "Let's cut to the chase," the lion said, staring Frank right in the eyes. "Hand over all you have, and maybe we won't hurt you."

 Frank scoffed at him, not even flinching at his words. "How about this, kid," he said. "How about you go back home and fuck yourselves before you guys tick off the wrong guy?"

 He was sure he plucked a nerve, as now all of them were glaring at them, Leader pointing the gun at his forehead. "Cut the crap, bud, and hand it all over! Or I'll shoot!"

 Eyes locked on each other, neither man daring to look away.

 "Try me."

 Franky saw Lion's shaky grip and took advantage, dodging the bullet that flew out from the barrel. He drew his own pistol and put his finger on the trigger, eyes on the gun now. Bang. Gun flew out of the Leader's hand, out of his reach. Cueball  heaved up the iron pole and tried to smash it into his chest, but Frank rolled out of the way just in time. The big brute kept on swingin, hardly giving him a moment to get back up on his feet. Cueball was getting tired after a few swings, and Frankie took that moment to get up and try shooting his weapon out of his hands.  Guy had a strong grip, and he managed to get a hit on the ex-mobster, sending him reeling back. Rat and Ugly took their chance to gang up on him and land a few bat swings and punches while they were at it, laughing as blow after blow landed. Frankie wasn't amused at all and throttled Ratface with his free hand. Ugly didn't take too kindly to that and tried a haymaker, only to get a kick to the gut for his troubles. He doubled over, holding his stomach as Frank moved passed him towards the bigger threats.

Cueball let out a roar and swung his pipe again, Frank ducking under it  and moving behind him, Before Cueball could turn around, strange symbols appeared on Frank's arm, glowing with a soft blue light, tendrils of power sparking off from them. His gun glowed for just a moment as he aimed at the pipe and fired, a bright blue bullet flying out and striking the middle of it.

The tower of muscle turned his head towards the man and grinned as he was spared of the bullet. He began to turn around towards him, but he noticed a string of light  coming out from where the bullet lodged itself in the pole. He hardly had time to process it before the pole jerked  out of his hands and struck his windpipe. He tried clawing it off, ripping it off, but it kept pressing up against his neck, harder and harder. One last time, he tried, only for the pipe to fly back and smack him in the face, knocking him cold onto the ground.

The pipe flew over to Frankie now, where it dangled by a thread of light attached to his gun. A moment later, it clanged to the ground. As Rat and Ugly turned to face him and saw their buddy out could, the ex-mobster said with a smirk, "You're gonna end up like Muscles here if ya don't stop fuckin' around with me, kids. Last warnin': Fuck off, and I won't have to-"

BANG. Shot grazed his cheek. He looked back and saw that Leader had his pistol again. Wouldn't help him, though. Grip was still shaky, Leader pissed beyond relief. Heavy breathing, eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

Frankie focused on the gun, though. Listened to it. Lion wasn't shit without it. It spoke to him,whispered to him, told him secrets it dared not tell to its wielder. It only made Frankie grin even more.

The Leader didn't take too kindly to it. "What's so funny?" he demanded, "I'm about to shoot you and you're just. just... are you nuts?!"

 Man, he'd laugh if he had a chance. But no, time to end this. He aimed his gun at his again and said, "Maybe I am, but even your gun thinks you're a joke. Couldn't even shoot an ol' granny even if she was right in your face! And if ya can't even hit that, you've got no chance against me, kid.

But if ya wanna try, be my guest. Show me whatcha got, peabrain."

That did it. Leader fired off shot after shot after shot, rage overtaking him. His buddies scrambled on out, running as far as their legs could take them and hoping that none of the bullets ricochet  onto them. Frank, on the other hand, was dodging them just fine, like it was just a normal boogie on a dance floor. He counted down how many shots were left: Five, four, three... two... one.

Then none. The sweet sound of an empty cartridge rang through Frankie's ears. Horror dawned on the Leader's face as the ex-mobster approached him and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, close enough to breathe down his neck.

"Gonna let you off easy right now, punk," he said in a harsh whisper, ignoring the leader's pathetic whimpers. "But if you pull this shit on me again, you'll be eattin' a knuckle sandwich, if not lead down your goddamn throat. Got it?"

He loosened his grip, letting the punk go. Leader ran off fast as he could, dropping the gun he had on him on the ground. Frank walked over and picked it up, checking for any chips or any signs of damage.

 "Couldn't have done it without ya, bud," he said, putting both pistols away and patting down both of them like they were people. "You too, Nasina. Nah, don't get jealous; this guy is gettin' a new home to someone who knows what they're doin'. Real good home."

Dawn broke into sunrise, tinting all it touched a bright yellow. By the time Frank reached the Silver Diner, he couldn't help but smile as the sun gave the metal exterior a little color. Out came the keys. Into the lock they went, door swinging wide open from a gentle push.

"Hey, honey. Hope I didn't keep ya waitin' too long!"

Silver Diner

Another quiet day.

The red, cushioned barstools all lined up in a row were empty, the bartop gleaming from how pristine it was. The checkboard floor also shined, freshly waxed, not a speck of dirt to be seen anywhere. The lights were bright, highlighting the sleek, metal tables that stood underneath them, as well as the few faces that sat around in the cushy booths, chatting amongst themselves and smiling as they sank their teeth into a juicy burger.

There was the soft sizzle of the deep friers and grills in the kitchen,  the smell of freshly cooked meat wafting over the counters and throughout the diner. The waitresses greeted two or three more people who were coming in, pearly white smiles on their faces as they grabbed a couple menus and led them to their booths. One waitress, with long blonde hair tossed over her shoulder, her bangs parted and covering her right eye, lifted a finger and started counting how many people were in.

Seven total. That made about 20 today. Not bad, although not great, either. She couldn't remember a single time when this place was packed. No need for those fancy vibrating thingamabobs; wait times were nonexistant here, with how business was. She didn't mind it much; meant a lot more peace and quiet rather than the din of most rival diners. Made her head hurt, she swore.

As the night went on, the waitress nearly dozed off when a shriek pierced the silence. Her eyes flew wide open as she pinpointed the source: a young woman, kind of ritzy looking, staring down at her plate like she was witnessing the next coming of Satan. The waitress fixed herself up and strutted over as fast as she could on her high heels and asked, "Something the matter?"

"Th-That... that THING is the matter!" the woman yelled, pointing down on her plate. The waitress looked down as instructed. Nestled nicely in a bed of fries as a giant, fat roach, antennae twitching about. "I found it there, just as I was about to-"

The words went through one ear and out the other, as the waitress had a terrible thought decend upon her.

Frankie is going to kill us.

She swiftly picked up the plate and said, "Don't worry about a thing, I'll tell the cook to make another batch, 'kay? Just sit tight!" She ran so fast to the double doors that led to the kitchen like she was running from an angry dinosaur and turned towards the gaggle of cooks handling things. She could barely spit out, "Who made this?!"

Most of the cooks shook their heads. One of them slowly raised their hand. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked. "Did they complain that their fries are too soggy? I cooked them perfectly!"

"No, but there's a goddamn roach on them just sitting here. Do you know how much trouble we're in if we see just one roach and all? Do you know?!"

"It's just a roach, kill or something, Isabelle."

Shock turned to rage, and Isabelle hissed, "Make another batch before Frankie gets here. If he finds out we have a roach problem-"

SLAM. All the cooks nearly jumped out of their skin as the doors flew open. Isabelle looked back, then stared like a deer in headlights.

"So, what's all this blab about a roach problem, eh?" a man's voice rang out, standing above most of the cooks and Isabelle. He was dressed to the nines, with black hair slicked back, square frame glasses pushed up as far as they could go before sliding down the bridge of his nose. His dark brown eyes were fixed upon the diner crew, his cold gaze bearing down on them.

Isabelle was the first to recover and stammered, "Frankie, sweetie, how ya doin'? It isn't something you should be coming out and handling, oh no no no-"

"It's just one tiny little roach!" the cook shouted. "Someone complained about a roach! It isn't that big a deal, is it?"

Frankie slammed his fist onto a table and snapped, "Not that big a deal? You say it's not that big a deal?!  Maybe I should shove my fist up your ass, maybe that won't be that big a deal! For fuck's sake, if there's one, there's a fuckton more somewhere! And crawlin' on a customer's food?! Are you tryin' to get the Health Inspectors in, coz they'd find that this is a big fuckin' deal!"

"Just call an exterminator! Seriously!"

"With what money, you blockhead?!" Frankie yelled, shoving his way past to look the defiant cook in the face with a fierce look that rivaled a lion's "Maybe the bucks comin' out of your paycheck? I don't have cash flowin' out of my ears, and we barely stay in the black as it is! You know goddamn well we don't get much business here coz everywhere ya look, there's a brand name restaurant that's singin' swan songs  to bring in customers and make their wallets a helluva lot lighter than when they first get in! All they recognize are brand names, with only the locals swingin' by here for a bite! And you got the guts to tell me, when I know what the hell's goin on and own the damn place better than you know the girls you've been screwin' for the past few days, that I can just call an exterminator and it's all gonna smell like roses after, huh? Huh?!"

Isabelle put a hand on Frankie's shoulder and said calmly, "Now honey, you know that's going a bit too far. Take a deep breath, he's not worth it."

The cook stared right back at Frankie. "Well, you wanna know what I think?"

Panic set in. Isabelle and the other cooks started mouthing at him, "No, no! Don't say it! Don't you dare!"

"I think you're taking this shit way too seriously! All this over one, count 'em. ONE goddamn roach!"

It took all the remaining cooks and Isabelle's combined effort to restrain their boss before he could throw a punch. Whole kitchen was a mess, with screaming and yelling, mostly from Frankie.

"YOU  PIECE OF DOGSHIT THIS GODDAMN PLACE IS MY LIFE AND YOU CAN'T EVEN TAKE YOUR DAMN JOB SERIOUSLY-"

It took a few minutes to calm him down, with one cook freed to remake the meal before the customer decided to leave. By closing time, all the customers were gone, and Frankie was taking out all his anger on that fat roach, crushing it in his grip as everyone else helped with cleanup. Isabelle skittered over to him, pale as a sheet, and said, "You hangin' in there, Frank?"

"If by that, ya mean not throttlin' that punk into a paste, I guess so," came the grumbly reply. If there was a roach in his hands, it was hardly recognizable as one anymore. "I swear, I feel like I'm bein' taken for granted, with this bullshit. One roach isn't a big deal, my ass. She's gonna get on yelp and downrate us for it, and we need all the good ratings we can get."

"I understand that you were over-the-moon pissed," Isabelle said, handing Frank a napkin to clean his hands off before brushing her hair back. "But let's not add another reason why the police should throw you back in jail. You did enough time after that whole crime syndicate thing, didn't you?"

The slick man pulled a box of cigarettes out from one of his pockets and pulled one out. "Not enough, accordin' to some," came the reply. "Some think I should have rotted in that hellhole. Others think I should be dead by now. I only got out from a stroke of luck, that's for damn sure." He then looked out the window, staring at all the people and cars passing them by, all the lights for other restaurants dimming until there was nothing. A solemn look replaced the anger as he placed the cigarette between his lips. "Didn't believe in second chances once. Now that I got one, though... I don't plan on wastin' it."

Isabelle shrugged and sighed. "You'll end up wasting it if you keep this up. Guy wasn't even worth it. You gotta be more careful and pick your battles, honey."

"Yeah, yeah, careful and all that. Can't go makin' myself some rope to hang myself with, can I?"

"Not at all. Now, what did ya plan on doin' tonight?"

"Goin' home and sleepin'. The usual. Writin' this knucklehead a pink slip. Got too many cooks in the kitchen anyway; don't need one messin' things up for everybody else. Stacy's good, though. Damn, she comes up with good ideas and cooks well, too. I mean, who ever heard of a Dragon Burger?! That was some good stuff, so I've heard. Gotta try one myself."

"You'd cry like a baby, honey," Isabelle said with a wink, picking up her purse and slinging it over her shoulder. "So, see ya tomorrow?"

"Same time, same place," Frank said with a smirk.

He watched as his workers left, leaving the diner as pristine as they found it. He took a moment to light up his cigarette and take it all in: the sights, the smells, the sounds... Just looking around the place at it's best calmed his nerves. And all of this was his responsibility, his pride and joy.

"See ya tomorrow," he said to himself before flicking the light switch.