23 Argula alugra

A blackboard high on the wall behind the counter presented the Plip Plop Coffe Shop’s entire menu in thick chalk handwriting. Letters of blue, red, and antique white proclaimed zorch coffee combos, buns, rolls, croissants, and muffins, and sandwiches that were the omega point of The Movement, organic basil mayo the final extant factor derived of banners ten bodies wide and marches on capitols and chants screamed across lines of fixed bayonets. The Establishment hadn’t been toppled, but the Conterculture unearthed dietary information that poked a hole in Wonder Bread. Yet within the algebra of snacks, there didn’t seem to be space for a frosted cake. It follows, though not strictly, there wasn’t a single one on display, neither ‘pon counter top nor behind glass. 9 grain bread, avocado, argula, and fine sprouts of alfalfa trumped chocolate cake. Aunt Kar wasn’t surprised; the place was full of bicycle riders, seated with their legs spread wide on the bistro chairs, as if this insolence was perfectly fine. It was as if each had had his little twenty mile bike ride and so believed he was Odysseus, and slumping was the honored mark of lassitude. “Pigs!” Aunt Kar spat. If it weren’t for them and their predilections for green grub, the Plip Plop, in the heart of town, might have space for nice things, like special occasion cakes with cheery frosting and cheery frosted inscriptions!
“There’s a fly, Drew!”
Baby Drew took it on faith that a fly buzzed in the odd flight pattern of its kind, and swung mightily the flyswatter.
A bicyclist took the blow instead, just as before.
“Oops,” said observant Monsignor Quinn.
“Dead,” an inveterate Plip Plopper contributed.
Sheriff Keene said it wasn’t a problem.
“Send ’em a message,” one of the Sunday drop-ins quoted Granny Guss, from the dark wood stool of his every Tuesday.

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One Response to “23 Argula alugra”

  1. Peter Smith Says:

    Momentum. Another one smacked and another one dead and it doesn’t matter to anyone, not even M. Quinn or the sherrif. It’s funny, it is, but at the same time the indifference that’s portrayed is terrifying. Terrifying because it’s not far fetched. Remember Godard’s “Weekend”? where after being stuck in a traffic jam for hours people start getting out of their cars, first insulting one another, your typical road rage, and then escalating their actions to pulling out guns and shooting one another at random. And it seemed the normal and obvious thing to do. Because it was.

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