Luke's, Monday
Eliot was a little bit late opening the diner today, as he spent a good chunk of the morning running up and down stairs all over the island just because he could. No wonder he'd decided that he was going to die young. Getting old -- after all the abuse his body had taken over the years -- sucked ass.
(Admittedly he didn't hate the parts of the weekend that hadn't involved aching joints and a non-functioning leg. But he also wasn't looking too closely at those, because panic was undignified.)
He put up with the kitchen staff trying to hand him anything even remotely long and skinny enough to be a fake cane for just long enough to establish the specials, then went back out into the dining room to make a few phone calls. Sure, it'd all been supposedly twenty years in the future, but it was never a bad idea to make sure the Bratva didn't currently have a contract out on you.
Today's specials
Any of the greasy, salty, fat-laden, or otherwise
crappy food you learned you won't be allowed to eat
in twenty years after your metabolism gives out
Luke's was open.
(Admittedly he didn't hate the parts of the weekend that hadn't involved aching joints and a non-functioning leg. But he also wasn't looking too closely at those, because panic was undignified.)
He put up with the kitchen staff trying to hand him anything even remotely long and skinny enough to be a fake cane for just long enough to establish the specials, then went back out into the dining room to make a few phone calls. Sure, it'd all been supposedly twenty years in the future, but it was never a bad idea to make sure the Bratva didn't currently have a contract out on you.
Today's specials
Any of the greasy, salty, fat-laden, or otherwise
crappy food you learned you won't be allowed to eat
in twenty years after your metabolism gives out
Luke's was open.