Jon Snow sat at the table in the Bakersfield Big Boy. He ran his hand along the vinyl gingham tablecloth and listened to the bustling customers wondering how much longer he should wait. Winter was coming and there was much to be done. He noticed the stench of wetnaps and mop water in the air. Something was amiss.
Looking forward, Jon Snow, could see the doorway darken. The shadowy figure approached him from behind. He held his breath and slowly reached for his sword. The world quieted as he watched the shadow grow larger as it came closer, his palms began to sweat.
The figure placed his hand on Snow’s shoulder. Jon jumped from his seat, and swung the sword at the throat of his attacker holding it still to allow for a minute of recognition before slicing off the head of his nemesis straight onto the condiments table.
“Whoa! Little man! Calm the fuck down. God damn!” said Jules Winnfield with one hand in the air and the other behind his back gripping his 9mm Star Model B stuffed into his waistband. Jules let out a sigh as Jon Snow removed the blade from his neck.
“Forgive me, sir, I thought you may have been Mance Rayder. He rides to war,” Jon Snow said reflectively and with concern. He sat at the table feeling a slight sense of shame.
“You’re talking like a crazy mother fucker, Jon Snow. What country are you from?”
“I come from the North.”
“North ain’t no country I’ve ever heard of. They speak English in North?”
“I don’t understand, Ser Jules.”
“English, motherfucker, do they speak it? Because I have no mother fucking idea what you’re saying,” Jules grabbed a paper napkin from the chrome dispenser and laid it on his lap. He stretched his arms out to easily let the sleeves of his black blazer pull themselves away from his wrists. His gleaming gold watch caught Jon Snow’s eye.
“What is this that sits upon your wrist?”
Jules leaned forward, almost meeting Jon Snow’s nose, “Listen mother fucker, I ain’t got time for your games. Mr. Wallace didn’t send me here to pussy foot around and I’m not in a very good mood because he picked mother fuckin’ Bakersfield as a meeting point, which means that I need to eat, take care of our situation, and then spend the next three motherfucking hours driving back to Los Angeles; even talking about this makes me want to shoot you right now. You know that I had to leave my lady who was in the middle of making a mother fucking spanakopita? Do you know how delicious a mother fucking spanakopita is? Especially with a bottle of merlot, mother fucker? Instead, I have to bust my ass to get down to this god forsaken mother fucking hell hold called Bakersfield. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with the business on hand. Now, let’s order some damn hamburgers, Lord Snow” Jules patted the bastard on the shoulder.
“Don’t call me Lord Snow.”
The bastard looked at the menu and briefly debated between the Sun Rise Slim Jim and the Ultimate Bacon & Honey chicken sandwich, “What is this honey mustard that is writ into this menu?”
“First of all, it’s written not writ, mother fucker. Writ is defined by the Merriam Webster Dictionary as ‘one’s power to enforce mother fucking compliance or submission; one’s authority’. That does not apply to this mother fucking situation.”
“I sense that you are of a foul mood this afternoon, my friend.”
“If my statement frightens you then you should cease using words that are not appropriate.”
A tall round blonde waitress came to the table, “Hi y’all. Welcome to Bob’s Big Boy. What would you like to drink?”
Both men looked up from their menus and simultaneously replied, “Water.”
“Water? You don’t want our unlimited soda pop? You can even get a pitcher if you like.” The silence between the men made the waitress uncomfortable,”Well, then, are you ready to order?”
“I’ll have the Ultimate Bacon & Honey chicken sandwich; hold the honey mustard,” Jon said softly, looking into the distance. One black, slightly greasy curl falling over his furrowed brow.
“Mother fucker, that’s the point of the sandwich. It’s an Ultimate Bacon & mother fucking Honey sandwich,” Jules slammed his menu closed and threw it on the table annoyed.
“I will have the sandwich sans honey mustard, I say!” The bastard placed his hand on the grip of his sword.
“You dumb mother fucker. You know nothing, Jon Snow, “ Jules brushed off his dining partner’s stupidity, “I’ll have a royale with cheese.”
“We don’t carry no royale with cheese. We do have the Classic Big Boy and the Super Big Boy. Both come with fries and if you want, you can upgrade it to fries with cheese for only a dollar more. For just another dollar, we’ll add cheese and more fries with cheese. That would be a two dollar upgrade for the fries with cheese with fries with cheese, just to be clear,” the waitress replied.
“God damn it then, woman, I’ll have the mother fucking Super Big Boy,” Jules replied with wide eyes directly confronting the waitress.
The waitress looked at Jules, then at Snow, then back to Jules, “Listen here, you goddamn cock sucking mother fucker. Today has been a real shit day, like I mean real bad day. Look at me, goddamn it! My whole life has been shit. It has been so shitty that my destiny has lead me to working in this god forsaken Big Boy in mother fucking Bakersfield. The least you two mother fuckers could do is talk to me with some goddamn respect because I’m not taking your shit today, sirs!”
With that, the waitress stabbed Jules Winnfield in the throat with the pen she was using to take the order. Blood spurted onto her dress and face while Jules grabbed his neck flailing in his seat and screaming, “You mother fucking bitch! I’ll fucking kill you!”
Jon Snow stared into the distance wondering if winter would ever come. One black, slightly greasy curl falling over his furrowed brow again.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 