The smell of grease-fried burgers and the copper tang of blood mixed together really doesn’t do much for the appetite. I feel like a piece of lamb waiting to be skewered, staring directly at the butcher from the plate. If it weren’t for “Bring Your Own Mug for a Free Pot of Coffee” Monday, I wouldn’t be here right now.
Not with that chili-dog-eating Devil.
Hate is a strong word, but mild discomfort describes my feelings right now pretty well.
(Maybe with an undertone of hate on his part.)
One thing that helps the stares we keep getting from the cooks, the waitress, and all the other midnight patrons, is pretending they’re looking at us because we’re handsome.
Two blood-covered teen vigilantes staring daggers into each others eyes, taking a break from fighting (possibly one another) to grab a bite to eat.
One thing is for certain; service in Gotham is extraordinary.