“I’ll have the scrapple,” I said.
The waitress glanced at the fist-sized bruise on my arm, then at Mike. I nodded. She jotted on her pad.
“Coffee.” Mike thrust the menu at the waitress. “Black.”
The waitress disappeared into the kitchen. Through the swinging doors, I saw her pass my order to the cook. He read it, then looked out at me. Eye contact. A small nod.
“What’s even in scrapple?” Mike sneered.
“Pork bits,” I explained. “Lips, nips, and assholes.”
The cook emerged from the kitchen. He approached Mike from behind, meat cleaver in hand.
“Mostly assholes,” I added.