Short Order Troll

This story was inspired by, and is dedicated to, the luscious SweetWitch. The part of the troll was played by actual anonymous public comments.

I took a quick glance at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Half an hour 'til closing. God, it had been a long day. Normally, I would be pretty much done at the grill by now, and I'd be helping Cherry wipe down the counters. The last customers would be leaving, and one or two of them would stop by the counter to tell us, even if they hadn't really liked what was on the menu, how much they appreciated the effort we put into keeping this place open.

Those were the days when I wouldn't trade the night shift at the Literotica Café for any of the other jobs I'd had over the years. The customers were a diverse group, with varied tastes that made keeping them happy a real challenge. Opinionated, too, but even when they didn't particularly care for something, they would be back the next day to see what we were going to be cooking up. Some of them were jerks, sure. We invited the customers to critique us, and even provided them with pencil and paper right in their booths. Not that that helped much; you'd get maybe one in twenty who actually left a note. Some were even signed, although "Symon Anou" and "Mona Yonus" were much more common. Of course, that wasn't my real name printed on the tag pinned to my shirt, either. I didn't want any of these people finding out who I was.

Anyway, you'd always get your whackos who sat there through the whole thing and were shocked to realize, only after they'd finished, that they didn't like it. They were always willing to let you know exactly where you'd screwed up. Something was too spicy, something else was too bland. I had my favorite pinned to the wall next to the grill: "fantastic potential and you let it trickle right through your fingers." Yeah, like you coulda done better, pal.

The toughest days are the "Special" days, like today. Or like "Incest." Although mostly that was just the drooling, by the guys who sit there with pictures of their wife's sister beside them, or even, ick, their grandmothers. Or "Loving Wives," probably the worst of all. You had a bunch of losers whose wives had cheated on them (often after discovering their husbands' philandering, but we never went there). They simply come in to wallow. They sit there, knocking back one after another to remind themselves how miserable they were, and then take you to task for helping them.

All the "Special" days aren't bad, of course. "Romance" day, for example, is always a good time. It's a small crowd, but that's a good thing, because they really want you to take your time and involve all of their senses: taste, smell, touch, sight. They don't want to hear much, though. They like it on the quiet side. Still, as demanding as they are, I look forward to those days. Partly that was because the fairer sex is always a lot better represented. They're more appreciative, too, with more interest in the sweeter and softer confections. I always get more comments on "Romance" days than on any other day.

Today, though, was a "Mature" day, God help us. They want to be served, they want it now, and they don't really want to be bothered with any sides. Just "Mature." They are quick, I will give them that. They breeze in, zip through the menu – "no, no, no, okay, let me see that one, no, no, geez, is that all you got today? – and head on out. No lingering, like the Romantics. The boss likes 'em, though, because of the turnover. There's always a line, and the wait staff barely has time to clean the tables before the seats are filled again. That was why I was draggin' so much. But hey, there was only a half an hour left.

"Al, we got trouble," I heard Cherry's murmur in my ear. I turned my head to look at her, and she nodded toward the end of the counter. A troll.

"Fuck," I said. "Who let him in?"

"He's wearin' a shirt and shoes," Cherry pointed out. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Aw, it's not your fault, kid," I ruffled her hair. The sign actually did keep a number of them out. And she was as upset as I was. A troll like that could bring her average tips down below what we all call the "H" line. It didn't matter how many tips you got in total, just what your average was. There was a magic number that would have the boss smiling at the end of the day and dispensing his "heckuva job, Cherry," and "heckuva job, Al." The smiles vanished any time you ended up with an average below the H line. Trolls always tipped poorly, on purpose, and they always went to considerable pains to let you know why.

"Did you get his order?" I asked.

"He wants a sampler plate first," she answered me. "He says he'll order after that."

"Yeah, I'll bet," I muttered. The sampler plate was the stupidest idea the boss had had, particularly given how little he charged for it.

"They sample, they order," he had offered a cheery justification.

More often they sampled, they left. Serial samplers were our biggest problem. I had some other orders ahead of his, but I got around to it in turn, and watched out of the corner of my eye as Cherry put it on the counter in front of him. I couldn't watch too long, though. I had a few other orders to fill.

Cherry was back in ten minutes.

"He's not happy," she said. "He wants you to fix it."

"Which he are we talking about?" I asked, although I already knew the answer. I followed her gaze over to the troll. "He wants me to fix a fuckin' mature sampler plate? In his dreams."

She gave me those cute little kitten eyes that made me putty in her hands.

"Fuck," I sighed. "I'll talk to him."

I flung my towel over my shoulder and tried to match his surliness. It was a losing proposition. I was in a service industry. If I'd wanted to be that surly, I would have stayed at the Post Office.

"What seems to be the trouble, friend?" I asked.

He indicated his plate.

"Boringgggggg!!!" he belched.

"Yeah, I notice you didn't have any problem finishing it, bub," I said as I picked up the plate. It was spotless. He could have licked it clean. Oh, gross, he probably did. I put it back in front of him and wiped my hand on my apron.

"Losing interest," he said in the usual verb-less way that trolls expressed themselves. "Better get hotter quick."

He started to push the plate back toward me, and I stopped it. That wasn't likely to be successful, either. Never get into a shoving match with a troll. Too bad. I was already here.

"I don't think so, chum," I told him. "See, that's how hot the sampler plate comes. If you want something hotter than that, you're just gonna have to order one of our regular menu items and finish it."

He was glaring at me now.

"Not enough action," he challenged me.

"Action, pal?" I asked him. "You can't handle any more action."

That was my best Jack Nicholson from "A Few Good Men." Although come to think of it, the troll was actually doing a pretty good Jack Nicholson himself. That creepy "Shining" Jack Nicholson.

"You're sucking the life out of this," he said.

That took me aback, and I let him know it.

"Whoa, that was impressive. Subject, verb, object. All right, tell you what, buddy, since you seem to be an unusually literate troll, I'll make you a deal. You pay up front, and Cherry and I each get a five for a tip. I'll make you a dish on the menu with all the heat and action I can. If you don't like it, I'll give you the money back and you can give us each a tip as low as you want. What do you say?"

He gave me what passed for a troll smile and grunted his approval.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cherry hissed when I returned to the grill and explained the deal. "He'll just lie and I'll end up below the H line. I did that last week, too. The boss is gonna fire me."

"Don't worry about it, kid," I smiled. "You can't get fired for that. You just lose a little self-esteem. You shouldn't pay that much attention to the tips anyway. You're a damn good waitress."

"'Don't worry about it,' he says," she threw up her arms and went to clean up the other tables. By now the troll was the only customer left in the place. I pulled out something I'd been saving for quite a while. I added even more heat and even more action. I was actually quite good at this. And I knew what I was doing.

The boss came in a little after midnight.

"There's a dead troll on the floor," he pointed out.

"Yeah, we noticed that," I said.

"Well, what the hell happened?"

"Too much heat," I said.

"Too much action," Cherry smiled.

"So he just slid off the chair onto the floor and died?"

"No," Cherry said, "he kind of stiffened first and then – whump!"

"Yeah," I nodded. "He kind of jerked off rather than slid off."

"Well, what the hell are we going to do with him?" the boss asked.

"Have we got a special yet for tomorrow?" I asked.

"No. Why?"

"How about 'NonHuman?'"