The Murderers [joshua]

The men came into the William Penn at half past six and two sat down at the counter. One went to the bathroom.

“Why they got a hot dog on the sign?” said the one called Jim.

“Guess all they got's hot dogs,” said Cal.

“What can I get you?” asked the man behind the counter.

“Hot dogs I suppose,” said Cal.

“We're out.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

Paul, back from the bathroom, sat down next to Jim and said, “I'll take two hot dogs.” He was grinning.

The boys chuckled.

“We're out.”

“What's the matter?” Paul asked.

The man behind the counter didn't answer.

“I want two hot dogs.”

“We're out.”

“Now you listen to m-”

“Take it easy, Paul,” said Jim, “no reason to make a fuss now. Let's just get outta here anyway.”

“Hey, waiter, you got anything but hot dogs?” asked Jim.

“We got omelettes.”

“Oh you're a real smart one, aren't ya?” said Cal, “I'll tell you what, you make me and my boys here three omelettes with peppers and I won't do anything you'll regret.”

Paul snickered.

Jim glanced at the door nervously.

The three men wore short jackets made of black pieces of sticky leather all sewn together. All wore jeans. Each of them kept his left hand in his jacket pocket and wore second-hand shoes. Jim smoked a cigarette.

“Whadaya lookin' at?” Paul breathed at the small man on his right.

“Depends,” said the man.

“Oh you're a real smart one, aren't ya?” said Paul, “You better take a hike, jack.”

“What's on your shoe?” asked the small man.

Paul looked down at his shoe and then took the small man by the scruff of his neck and shoved him off his stool.

“Hey!” said the waiter, “I'm calling the cops.”

“No you're not”, growled Cal, slowly drawing a gun from his left jacket pocket, “Gimme the phone.”

The waiter slid the phone down the counter to where Cal could reach it. Cal raised his gun high in the air and brought it down on top of the receiver. He bashed it to pieces.

“Now go get our omelettes.”

The waiter hurried into the kitchen and returned with three omelettes hastily placing them in front of the men.

“Now lie down on the floor, all of you,” said Paul as he took his napkin and wiped the blood from his shoe.

The waiter laid down on the floor, as did the man next to Paul, and the couple at the window. Cal yelled for the cook.

A short, fat man scurried out of the kitchen with a confused look on his face.

“Lie down on the floor,” Cal told the cook.

Paul snickered.

Jim glanced at the door nervously.

The men started eating their omelettes.

“Why are you doing this?” asked the small man.

“Why are you doing this?” mimicked Paul.

The men snickered.

“Cause William Penn here ain't got no hot dogs,” said Cal, “and hot dogs is the reason we came in here. You got a problem with that?”

“Depends,” said the small man.

“I'm 'gittin sick of you,” said Cal.

“Let's get outta here,” said Jim.

“Okay Jim,” said Cal, “after you.”

Jim pushed his barely-touched omelette away from himself. He stood up and started for the door but tripped over the small man and hit his face on the small man's stool as he fell. Paul drew his gun and shot Jim in the back. The woman screamed. The small man cried out.

Paul and Cal snickered. They stood up and headed for the door.

“Bad day,” said Paul, shutting the door slowly so as to minimize the annoying jingle.

“Coulda been worse,” said Cal.

“Hehe, yeah,” said Paul, “they coulda been outta omelettes.”

The men chuckled.