Floyd Kelly

Flo’s Flapjack Diner had never seen a customer like Bob. He lumbered through the entrance, the old floorboards groaning under his steps—a man so large he seemed to have his own gravitational pull. He squeezed into a booth that audibly groaned under the strain, trapping him instantly. He ordered the Full Flo’s Experience—a platter piled high with pancakes, fried chicken, a taco salad and a large chocolate milkshake—and devoured it all with a loud symphony of crunches, slurps, loud belches, and finger-licking schlorps, leaving behind a stack of gleaming, twice-licked plates. Yes, he licked the plates twice.

Then came the roar.

“Unacceptable!” Bob steamed, his ham-sized fist slamming the table. “The chicken was overcooked, the pancakes were a disaster, the taco salad was too authentic and the milkshake tasted like—chalk. I refuse to pay for this terrible tasting food!”

Steven, the meek young waiter, gestured at the spotless plates. “But sir, you ate everything.”

“That’s not the point!” Bob sniffed. He tried to stand in a show of indignation but found himself hopelessly wedged in the booth. “Your furniture is faulty!” he bellowed as the manager dialed the fire department.

As three bemused firefighters surveyed the scene, a woman from the next booth finally piped up. “He licked the plates! Twice! We all heard it!”

The diner erupted in laughter as Bob’s face turned beet red. After the firefighters freed him with an over-sized crowbar, he pointed a finger at Steven. “I’m writing a review, and it’s gonna be brutal!”

Steven muttered under his breath, “Make sure to mention our free extraction service.”