Waitstaff

I’m Gorglax, and I’ll be your motherfucking waiter tonight.  You all want massive tankards of fermented chrisaak blood spiced with gallroot resin?  Good, because that’s what you get.  I’ll be back for the next part of this empty charade.

OK.  You fuckers drunk enough to eat yet?  Excellent.  I’ll bring out the meat.

Fuckers!  Shut the fuck up!  This is the meat.  Here and here is rabbit and frog, respectively.  That big thing is a grall heart.  This, this, and this are its eyes.  That syrupy stuff is trinark venom – the chef’s a fucking madman.  There’s no tuberoot.  Eat up and I’ll be back with more blood.

You insignificant pieces of shit want something sweet?  Any of you die yet for the love of god?  We’ve got banker’s fungus and kingsmount talons.  Yes, they’re fucking steamed in Southwall ale.  I’d go with the fungus anyway.  What?  Do you really expect me to embark on an etymological lecture regarding the items on our dessert card, perhaps spicing up the straight linguistics with discursions into monetary policy and the proper treatment of papyrus fibers intended for use as currency, hmmm?  Ain’t happening.

That’s it, pay up.  Eighteen percent is added for groups of three or more.  You can make return reservations with Gwen out front.  Now go.

–Steve Kilian

Geographical Points of Interest

The Hurt Locker

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