Fire and ice

11:37 a.m

From the ladies’ restroom Shelly heard women screaming and dishes breaking and pieces of silverware clanging metallically to the floor. A man shouted, “Oh my God, he’s got a gun.”

Shelly didn’t know what the hell was going on, but she was missing all the excitement and that wasn’t cool. Fuck a bunch of waiting around for these bitches to come in and potty. Time to kick things up a notch.

She pulled the Remington twelve-gauge pump from the pouch and stuffed some extra shells into her pockets. She pumped one into the chamber and walked out with the barrel leading the way.

The worst table in a restaurant is always the one nearest the restrooms. There are people constantly walking by, on their way to piss or shit or hock a loogie, and in the worst establishments you can even hear the toilets flushing. Not very appetizing. Plus, the hallway to the restroom is usually near the door to the kitchen, so you have servers and busboys scurrying back and forth with trays of hot food or plastic bins of dirty dishes, and the chef is always shouting at someone for screwing something up. The worst table in a restaurant is always the one nearest the restrooms, and at the Retro it was a four-top nestled between the lobster tank and a life-sized statue of Elvis. Shelly turned the corner and saw the unlucky party, an elderly couple on one side of the table and a much younger couple on the other. Next to the younger woman there was a little girl, probably between the ages of one and two, strapped into a wooden high chair. The baby was screaming for all she was worth, and all four of the adults had their elbows on the table and their hands laced together and their eyes closed. They were praying. Shelly aimed the gun and pulled the trigger, and chunks of Grandma and Grandpa splattered all over Elvis’s chubby face. It looked like someone had thrown a plate of spaghetti and meatballs at him. The young couple’s expressions had quickly turned from worry to terror, and they backed toward the wall and held their palms out in a defensive gesture as Shelly turned the gun on them and their baby.

“Stop!”

Shelly looked toward the front entrance. It was Matt Cahill, and he was pointing a pistol right at her.