Franken Nunny helped himself to another heaping ceramic bowl full of the delightfully refreshing stew. Even on these hot Caribbean nights he couldn’t get enough of the supreme slop. With whiskey and lime in hand, he squatted down at the massive oak table. Creamy blue painted waves adorned the table’s smooth surface and Franken plopped the bowl downward onto one of the oil painted clouds. The décor at Kimbo’s was tackily reminiscent of what tourists thought the island ought to be. In a lot of ways they would be correct. Large fake palms towered over tables and wicker chairs. Straw mats covered the chipped and faded cerulean blue tiled floor and a large light hung from the center of the ceiling, its fan decorated as a cheesy cartoon sun. Equally tacky tikki torches lined the walls leading to the main counter. Kimbo’s was largely a tourist joint, serving skewered shrimp and coconut mai tais at painfully inflated prices. The coconut came from cans and the shrimp from frozen bags, and Franken was almost certain the special stew’s main ingredient was overpopulating stray cat. Franken Nunny didn’t mind. He didn’t come to Kimbo’s for two-star dining off of the over-priced menu; he came for the real island specialties.
“Welcome! Ra! Welcome!” The obnoxious macaw at the entrance proclaimed upon each new patron’s arrival. Fresh meat had just entered the scene. Franken could smell the young woman’s over dowsed perfume. And interestingly enough she had a mate with her. A squat tennis ball shaped man followed her into the restaurant. He reeked of grease and expensive hair gel. The kind you buy at fancy department stores for $60 something a bottle, even though it’s probably from the dollar bin at any run of the mill drug store repackaged into high class Italian bottles bearing designer names. The fat bloke had to be about twenty years the girl’s senior. She didn’t seem to mind which told Franken that the guy was loaded. Fat old ticking time bomb of a pay off. He watched the couple take a seat in the corner of the mostly deserted restaurant. The girl wore a two sizes too small yellow bikini top and cut-off shorts. These puppies would have put even Daisy Duke to shame; firm burnt ass cheeks peeked out from under frayed denim fringe. The old guy donned the typical tourist island get-up, annoyingly loud Hawaiian print button-up shirt, fully equipped with undone top buttons exposing repulsive white chest hair against cherry red skin.
“Daddy, let’s go see the dolphins after this, then I want to change into that other suit. You know? Not the blue one, the white one, you know? The one with the flowers, but not the pink flowers, unless I change my lipstick. Hmm, do you think I should change my lipstick?” Her voice was the type of shrill nasality that caused testicles to crawl back up inside grown mens' bodies. Franken assumed she was using the word daddy as a term of endearment; or at least he hoped she was, as the words slipping from her lips were oozing with attempted sexuality.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what suit or lipstick you wear. Whose cock do I have to suck to get a fucking shot around here?” Franken couldn’t help but notice what a charming couple the two made.
“Daddy, I’m gonna go to the little girl’s room. Order me a strawberry mango margarita. But not too much mango. Like tell them I want mostly strawberry. And I want it blended with five cherries and one of hose little umbrellas. You know, the little paper umbrellas?”
“Yeah yeah. Shut up already, you’ll drink whatever goddam foofie drink I get you,” the girl tossed her over bleached hair at her date’s response and jutted out both silicone lips and tits. As she stood to leave, her date slapped her nearly exposed rear with his large perverted paw, “and hurry back already. I hate waiting on your ass.”
As the girl shimmied to the restroom Franken casually rose from his seat. He quietly made his way to the back of the restaurant, carefully observing that no one was watching.
The signs above the offensive neon green doors read Niño’s and Niña’s. Franken glanced over his shoulder and then swift and purposeful as a fox on the hunt pushed open the door reading Niña’s. The girl was already in the right most stall and Franken walked to the mounted sink opposite her door.
Back at the girl’s table, her grotesque meal ticket was sipping away at his recently delivered top shelf tequila.
“Tastes like piss,” he muttered audibly enough for the bartender to hear. Perhaps if his table would have been slightly closer to the back of the restaurant or if he had been just an ounce less self involved, the man would have heard the repeated draining and sloshing sounds trailing from behind the Nina labeled door. Instead he sat there like a stuffed pig tapping sausage fingers against the table in irritated anticipation.
Franken moved quickly, he slurped up what he wanted, flushed what he could and disposed of what he needed to. Kimbo’s was more than tolerant of Franken’s life-style, so long as all of the checks were paid. A jumbo sized dumpster was even moved within chucking distance from the bathroom’s conveniently large window. When he finished, Franken Nunny gave himself a once over in the mirror, simultaneously changing his face and straightening his black tie. He brushed bone fragment from his shoulder while admiring how polished he appeared just as the anticipated voice leaked through the bathroom door.
“Bunny! What the hell is taking so long? You better not be changing your goddam lipstick again,” Franken could smell the fat bastard as he banged greasy hairy knuckle against wooden neon green, “God damn it! Answer me! Alright Bunny, if you don’t come out now I’m going to come in there and pull you out! Fucking Christ, Bunny, you asked for it.”
The door handle turned and Franken Nunny licked his blackened lips.