Prompt 9: The Fight Scene
His eyes were dull and never opened enough for civility. They kept to themselves, those two dark eyes. Both blue but couldn’t be registered as such since the light rarely found them. He just stood there by the fryer. No gloves for his bloated hands. A collection of motor oil and bacon grease lived under his finger nails. Staring at the bubbly gold elixir in the uninspired rectangle hole, he wiped his heavy jowls with the hairy side of his hand. Sweat stole out of his whiskery lip muscles. It slipped around his face until it pooled into the abandoned pit below his sagging lower lip.
His name was Jerry. Opposite him was Jim. Jim was a dishwasher and Jerry didn’t think about him much. Dishwashers hate grease. Suds were his comfort. The steep edges of the metal sink wore marks from Jim’s carved fingertips. His pointed chin had uneven black hair and a patch of white. The teeth resembled fangs which suited his cracked lips as his tongue tortured the rivets with hot spit that dried yellow. Jim was a dishwasher and he never asked for more. He only wished for Jerry to have a heart attack on the job and flop his unamused face into the deep end of the fryer.
The tiles were orange and they made unusually dull sounds by cheap shoes. Fifteen years of grease and suds caged in the back corner together had limits. Only ten minutes until closing and the grease felt particularly inconsiderate to Jim whose physical constitution was merely hollowed bones and tendons wrapped in pasty skin. He found his blade. A table knife used by a doting mother in the booth seat by the restrooms who cut pork chops for her apple faced boy.
A spider has more subtlety, but not by much. Jerry felt less than Jim wanted. The blade was not dull, but it had ridges and they required more maneuvering through his fatty side. Jim made adjustments. Jerry spewed saliva from his face and blood from his ribs. A ladle’s worth of hot mess slipped down Jim’s broomstick arm and blended with his Speed Stick pit. Jerry crashed to one knee, letting the tile sound meaningful for once. As he rotated himself, the buried cage of burning fries arched over him and slammed onto Jim’s unkempt head. The scream was that of a bird as he writhed on the floor. The orchestra of sounds coming from the tile never made it to the front of house. They remained for its prime audience.
His hand was slumped under his role of fat and the blood refused to clot. Beside him, Jim knew lava. The remainder of their shift left a few kicks for Jim to deliver into Jerry’s expressionless face as they lay there. Jim rolled over and crawled dragging blood, grease and suds across the orange floor. The door was opened and then swung shut and the heavy sack of meat fingered the better-looking fries from under the sink.
