Story Time

At the Screaming Monkey's Head.

8pm local standard. Kindly Bob is at the bar, wiping out a glass. The Screaming Monkey’s Head has a larger than usual crowd for tonight is Story Time. “Final call before Story Time,” he called out. A flurry of orders came in and were dispatched with dispatch.

Everyone was aware at once that Sylk was among them. One lady actually screamed, and several men fell back, and then relaxed. It was Sylk. They all knew him, but he was an enigma to everyone. How could someone so large come and go the way he did?

“Tonight our story teller is Sylk!”

There was a hush, then a murmur, and then excitement.

“Sylk, the floor is yours.”

From his long black cloak that some people felt was alive, he pulled out a tattered hardback book. “This was given to me by my mother. It is a collection of tales we children were read. The title of the book is Stoopid Tales for Stoopid People. Written by Jonathon Taylor Swift, an ancient author from a planet other than mine own.”

And he began.

The Vegan had been traveling until late in the evening. What’s a Vegan you ask? Well, then you have never met one and count yourself among God’s favored. Anyway, he had been traveling until late in the evening, and was hungry. He felt around in his console, found his last bar of homemade Tofu Jerky, picked it up, sniffed it, felt himself gag, and put it back down. He remembered telling his brother, “This is the best tasting jerky I have ever had, even from before when I used to eat food with faces.” I must be hungry for fresh food.

Up ahead he saw the sign and issued a performative shudder. In garish yellow neon, the animated pig flipped purple pancakes in the air. Why is that pig wearing a jacket and nothing else? Well, he could ask what the ingredients to the pancakes were. He gave a heavy sigh, pulled into the middle turn lane and flipped on his blinker. His turn signal synchronized with the porcine purple pancake purveyor.

When he climbed out of his Prius the smell of bacon washed over him. “Gross!” he said aloud as his mouth watered. Walking through the door he was assaulted by an olfactory melange that made his head spin. Butter, ham, eggs, bacon. He reeled for a moment and felt a primal yearning in his stomach. He sat down at the booth the waitress pointed him to, feeling hollow.

The waitress flounced over, bringing with her a mug and coffee. “Howdy mister, do you take cream and sugar?” He blanched and said, “No cream” a little too loud, looked up and saw her name was Blanche. “Sugar, sweetie?” she said oblivious to the pun. “No, the yellow stuff.”

“You know that’ll kill you.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to kill it first.”

Blanche put her hand on her hip and said, “Do tell,” and swayed away. “Hey Bill, we got us a vegetarian or something here.”

“I’m Vegan!” he cried. From behind the counter Bill hollered back, “Tell ‘im I can make one a them egg white omelets.”

“No!” he cried out. “I’m vegan! Nothing that comes from animals!” There was a moment of silence and then he asked, “What’s in your pancakes, eggs, I suppose.”

“Yeah bud, you can’t make pancakes worth eating with out ‘em. And milk.” Bill stuck his head over the counter and added, “The wheat the flour was made from was probably fertilized with manure. Can you eat that?”

“The wheat didn’t kill any cows.”

“OK, look, I got a recipe, water, no eggs. Taste like manure, but you’re used to that, right?”

The vegan just nodded.

“Blanche, c’mere.” Blanche sashayed over and they whispered together for a bit.

10 minutes later she came over with the pancakes and Blanche said, “Here, on the house, a little… Hey Bill”, she shouted, “What’d you call this?” “A crudité.” “A croody tay,” she finished as she put the plate down. “Pickled,” she added. As she turned around a broad smile broke on her face and she all but skipped over to Bill. They took pains not to stare, but they were watching closely.

The vegan got a fork and tried the pancakes. Exercise mats, more like, he thought. He was not sure he could eat the thin rubbery disks. He picked up some of the crudité with his fork and eyed it with suspicion. Pickled crudité? Odd. Smells… good. He carefully sampled a bit.

“Hey, what’s this crunchy tasty thing?”

“Tempeh.”

“What?! no way,” and he turned to stare at Bill. Puzzled he asked, “Where you from?”

“Indonesia. Love tempeh.”

“No way,” he said again and began wolfing down the pickled crudité. He finished his meal, paid, left a good tip, and left.

Blanche turned to Bill and they both busted out laughing. “The vegan ate bacon!”

So, how did the Vegan eat the pig?

With relish.

Kindly Bob snorted and the bar groaned. “A round for the house,” Kindly Bob said, and everyone cheered and Sylk was gone.