The Brooklyn Circle-Like Table

“Ya gonna finish dat?”

Paolo looked at Bryce, and the whopper he was eating. Bryce stared back, his lips barely holding the wilted romaine and tomato.

“Yeah, I am! Waddaya, stoopid?” Bryce took the oily bag that sat between them and moved it away.

Paolo’s voice whined. “When ya goin’ back?”

“Ya think this frickin’ sewer is gonna dig itself? I’m goin’ back after we’re done today!”

Paolo stared, his eyes drooled with envy. “I’ll cover ya – boss won’t know ya left.”

Bryce stopped eating his 100% real beef. He swallowed, then snarled. “Ya think I can yank two grand from my ass? That’s the fine for that crap.” He stiffened, and his voice briefly crisped. “Take thine offer of indolence to the hell what brang ya.”

Paolo’s arm drew his RV-20 Forced-Air Hammer, and he fired five times. Bryce goggled in shock as his pants (and his legs) were nailed to the bench.

As Bryce began to wail, Paolo stood and sneered. “Fine – go ahead, eat yer frickin’ whopper. Enjoy.” His final bon mot delivered, he went back to work.

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