Lick Your Neighbor by Chris Genoa

had just one wish in life, it would be that I never understand it. Because the only people who understand crap like that are the ones who mumble to themselves in a padded cell. All I want is for you to answer one simple question and then shut your pie hole. Do you, or do you not, want homefries instead of hashbrowns?”
    “What the hell are homefries?”
    “They’re like hashbrowns, only thicker.”
    Even in the darkest of hours, sometimes there’s hope.
    “I don’t believe you.”
    But we don’t always see it.
    “They’re the same goddamn thing,” Donna said, releasing released him.
    “Oh really?” Randy tried to shake feeling back into his hand. “Are they cooked in the finest of bacon grease with a handful of the blackest of pepper, a scattering of the most thoroughly chopped onions and multicolored peppers, and way too much garlic? Are they cooked, or dare I say overcooked, so that the crispiness is taken to the point of absurdity? Will they make me feel almost nauseous after eating them? Not nauseous, mind you, but almost nauseous?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well then load me up. But I still think something funny is going on around here.”
    Duxbury Diner was jam-packed with its usual weekday breakfast crowd. That is to say, there were four people in the restaurant, and two of them worked there.
    Donna wrote “Randy’s usual w/ h.fries” on a ticket and slapped it down on the stainless steel kitchen window ledge. In the kitchen, the cook Salty Peter—so hairy he should have been wearing a full-body hairnet—glanced up from the pancakes bubbling on the grill. Not surprisingly, there was a lone, short black hair dancing around in one of those batter bubbles. No one could know for sure, but it looked like the hair was having the time of its life.
    “Morning, Randy.”
    Randy, who was trying to tip-toe behind Peter to the coffee pot, shot back an overly cheery, “Hey, hey! Good morning, Salty!”
    Salty Peter waved the ticket at Randy. “Is this going on your tab?”
    “Well…” Randy pulled his wallet out, peeked into it with one eyed closed, slammed it shut, and then threw it into a corner as if it was on fire.
    “Yes it is.”
    “Do you think that’s wise?”
    “You know I’m good for it.”
    “You do remember that you also put this month’s rent on your tab.”
    “One month isn’t going to kill anyone.”
    “And last month’s.”
    Randy’s eyes bulged. He’d forgotten about that.
    “I actually wanted to settle your tab today,” said Salty as he stared deep into the crackling abyss of sizzling sausages on the grill, “But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
    Randy put his hand on Salty’s shoulder.
    “That’s awfully nice of you, Peter. Awfully nice indeed. When I’m lost out there, and I’m all alone, it’s good to know there’s a light waiting to carry me home. That light is you, friend.”
    “I couldn’t do it,” said Salty, “because I don’t know the advanced multivariable calculus, algebraic topology, and knot theory required to add it up.”
    “Ah, well then, who does really?”
    “My daughter. She’ll be home from MIT for the holiday tomorrow. I told her to bring a graphing calculator, pencil sharpener, and Stephen Hawking’s cell phone number. I think she might be able to use your tab for her thesis.”
    “Ah the younger generation. They really are our greatest treasure.”
    Silently cursing the goddamned younger generation, Randy slowly turned and headed back to the relative sanctuary of his office/storage closet.
    He barely had time to complete his morning ritual of looking over from his rickety perch behind the desk at the dirty mop in the corner and sighing before the phone rang. Randy pinched his nose and answered, “Tinker, Goldberg, and Slaughter, we tinker with the law and slaughter your enemies to get you the gold you deserve, how may I direct your call?”
    “Randy, it’s Andie. Dale’s been arres—”
    “One moment please, I’ll see if Mr.