The Shell Fish Lifestyle

The part of me I didn’t love before, but I love now is deceased. Gone the way as a special on a blackboard inside the maritime themed restaurant bearing the crustacean’s name. A lovely, cooked specimen served daily every afternoon, sunset to midnight. As I watch another day come to a complete end, I find true stimulation in buttering up another creepy creature from below the seas.

During its living campaign, all the teaseful tasteful dish committed was meander into a cage, didn’t even press the elevator button up. Next thing it found out the shellfish confirmed new residency inside a tourist hot spot, filled with flowing human traffic, stopping by to see what was on the menu. When the blue-plate star heard the calling, the barnacle bait headed straight into the room, appearing to be a hospital clinic wing for conch out rebels. Next scheduled agenda item, travel through pots and pans occupying the shiny well-lit area where the oceanic mobster accepted beauty salon treatment before being thrown into the boiling water, fulfilling a judgement, from above decision makers.

Claws filled with meat and little walking legs, when sucked brought back memories featuring first girlfriend kiss outside the mini mart. Inside the stomach there were green dead men tempting a few nice tender juicy morsels. Sitting back, I digested this surgical procedure performed that started when a culinary employee dropped the poor soul needing redemption into a bath whose temperature took away life and making the skeleton remains, a delicacy feast.

“Can I get you anything else?” A server approached.

“Just the check,” I replied.

Minutes later the kind individual approached me and presented the statement. “Holy the rascal costed how much?” I emotionally exploded.

“We are now charging for melted butter,” the server explained, “owner got the idea from The Big Orange across the street, they charge for blue cheese.”

“Do I look like I am looking for something like I would at The Big Orange?”

“No, sir but it is only a buck and a half,”

“For melted butter!”

I handed him my American Master Express card and the server went in the back, swiped the number and upon return accepted my signature as payment.

Strolling outside I saw a young girl wearing a ball cap standing with her brother who also had athletic attire. “Are you looking for a nice juicy lobster?” I asked her and she returned a strange look.

“Nah, sir,” the child replied, “a half dozen chicken wings with complementary blue cheese.”

“Why not a nice lobster dipped in melted butter?”

Pounding her glove she stood ground, not budging an inch, “no one is going to butter me up and serve me as a fancy entrée.”

“But the chicken wings?” I inquired.

“Half price, its happy hour,” she stuck her fist into the leather baseball device designed to catch a small spherical rawhide stitched ball.

“Knows how to work a budget,” I mumbled hearing one last remark, “if you are looking for a creamy dessert.” I didn’t hear the rest of the girl’s comment, instead started my engine and put the car in reverse.

An hour later working the dark room developing today’s assignments, enjoying the final moments to the experience I had earlier and pondered the reason for the extra charge. “Melted butter, blue cheese, what is next?” I asked.

And that is when a spirit entered the scene, a motherly figure who stood there with a grave appearance, “I had a healthy salad and the fashionable dressing made me look good, but you wanted melted butter.”

My eyes fixated with fear could not believe what I saw, “you went to the place across the street, had formal linen tables, you said it you wanted something new,” she expressed as a sharp pain hit my chest.

When I woke the comforting home image stared me in the face, “leftovers are in the refrigerator, use the microwave, I am going shopping.”