You approach the table. There are three big guys, tattoos showing on their exposed arms. “’Bout fuckin’ time we got some service,” says the biggest of them. “Give us each a double order of that Kuh-thal-mari,” he says, forcing out the tricky syllables. “Now!” You nod and flee to the kitchen, stammering out the order.
“A double order?” repeats the line cook, a heavy-featured man with a handlebar mustache. He mutters something dark. “Hokay. Six cthalamari down!”
He looks at you. “Stay here. The fry cooks need your help. One of them just got… sick.” He glances toward the back.*
* Any seeming inconsistencies in the timing of the events are due to the warped nature of time in the presence of Great Old Ones and other extradimensional phenomena. Not narrative inconsistency the author failed to resolve. At all.
