Ricky Rick’s Ekphrasis Bar & Grill
V0011226 Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating to Susan Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images firstname.lastname@example.org http://wellcomeimages.org Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating t Susannah who holds her nose near the wounded baby Tristram Shandy. Coloured etching after H.W. Bunbury after L. Sterne. By: Laurence Sterneafter: Henry William BunburyPublished: — Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/[/caption]
The space is long and thin and cramped like the fallopian tube of some giant woman that offers a blue plate special up inside her. The waitress, herself some giant woman, seats you at your table, which is covered in a fungoid mold unknown outside the blast zones of atomic weapon test sites. Her demeanor conveys a mixture of emotions that fit somewhere between blue and brown. Call it bluwn. Her teeth are like used buckshot, round and bloody and reeking of death, and the breath they filter is equally so. It merges with the ordure of the kitchen that floats through the pores in the drywall and slap-swingy doors lazily and lethally like a cloud of summertime Sarin, and hangs there in the air, daring you to breathe. It stirs your hunger like a cannibal chef stirs a massive iron pot of man-stew, strong and proud and utterly terrifying. The menu is a stupefying assortment of Sweet Holy Christ and You Want Me To What? Gravy is everywhere like a sludgy, grey dictator’s secret police. Will it come for me in the night? Tell my wife I love her. You order. The waitress in the sonic equivalent of a rusty rake disagrees with your choice, chooses not to give a shit, and blobs off, hacking a thousand cigarettes worth of phlegm into the fabric of space-time as she does. Rick himself, blurping and cursing around the grill and deep fryer like some kind of hell-pear, dumpy and and ovoid and violent and sweating as if he had been born with malaria and then went on to engage daily with what must be the anti-thesis of exercise. Dying fatly, I’d offer. He trowels out your hash as if it was an ancient plague, splashing the plate down with a vomitous “PICK UP!”. The waitress still phlegming at the mouth and so charitably raining it over your dish like a Rangoon monsoon, drops the plate before you like a dead pigeon and possibly mouths the dirt-bag version of bon appetit. I looked it up, it’s Go Fuck Yourself. You gag it down. And now you know now what trench warfare tastes like. Prepare to sleep the sleep of million rampaging bowels.
Ricky Rick’s Bar & Grill
324 West Ash Rd.
Open for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner.