Once, there was an alcoholic, his name is unimportant. His job was as a baker. Long respected back in his younger days, now most remembered not. Most of the younger generation that frequented his restaurant never saw or heard from the man who cooked the food they loved. His anger was incredible. Deep and jarred, waiting to burst, some day to affect all in range. The poor man did his work, day in and day out, waiting for a break, one day his gun collection would become handy.
It was a cold January night and the restaurant was so empty it felt as though a public broadcasting radio show was playing in the background, repeating weather, traffic, how to dress for cold weather as if the listener was all of a sudden a visitor from a distant planet. Stale fries waited for greasy thongs to place them upon thick ceramic plates with a thin blue line running around the edge. The waitress filled with anxiety, knowing things will not be all right, despite repeated slogans and remedies from debt resolutions and solutions to zit creams and fat redistributions, slouched against the counter wishing for a time with her pillow.
The cook, struggled for a moment of meaning, not distracted by the usual crowd and toil. There were no meanings, only distractions that served as meanings.
Take over Deunan.