Wilma's Café

A Cab Hails Ben

Ben's thoughts are rudely interrupted, however, when a red 1964 Chevy Corvair Monza coupe with "Giovanni's Cabs" placards on the doors pulls a bootlegger reverse in traffic (crossing into the opposite lane in the process) and slides to a stop blocking traffic just ahead of Ben.  The passenger door opens and a voice which is at the same time gravelly and mushy says "Hop in, Ben.  You look like you could use a ride."

Peering inside Ben's first impression is that of a definite lack of personal hygiene in inside.  The cab itself isn't dirty, but the person driving could certainly use a bath - or perhaps a couple of runs through a car wash.  The man behind the wheel is Hispanic/Caribbean, in his late twenties, 5'9", 160 lbs.  His face is oddly lopsided - the right side is relatively normal, perhaps a bit swollen.  The left side is darker, smaller, sunken in and decidedly more sinister looking.   The head is attached to a body dressed in clothing that is desperately in need of washing, with obvious and profuse food and sweat stains.

Ben recognizes the driver as one Jack Rack, the only mutant currently driving for Giovani Mancini (or at least the only one that Ben knew of a couple of years back).  Jack is known for two things - first for having a gift for languages, second for having a photographic memory.

Maybe it's a healthy dose of paranoia, after all there is a contract out on his head, or maybe it's that shrunken prune face, there's just something about Rack that makes Ben a little suspicious.  Leaning over and looking through the open door, Ben studies Rack for a few seconds.  "What's up Jack?" he finally says.  "How's life treatin' ya?"

Jack laughs.  Its not a particularly pleasant sound - something between a cackle and a slobber, and it makes his face look like a LucasArts special effect done on flesh.

"Oh, 'bout the same," he responds.  "I still get a Burger or two jumpin' outta my cab screamin' every week, I still look and sound like a hideous misshapen freak, and my love life hasn't improved.  On the other hand my Swahili is improving. I met a guy last week who spoke Urdu - really helped with my accent - and my right hand is strong enough to strangle rottweilers..."  He shrugs, causing a noticeable rain of dandruff.

"Surprised to see you back in town.  Though you wuz off ta see the world.  AND keep one step ahead of that bullet in the back of yer melon."  Jack slaps the back of his head for emphasis, causing yet more white flakes to cascade into his lap.  He laughs once again, then abruptly pauses in thought.  His frown of concentration is only slightly less nerve-wracking than his laughter.

"Come to think of it, I heard  that there was a $20,000.00 contract on your head.  That was half a year back, so I don't know if its still open or not, but ya might not want to be just walkin' around on the streets.  Word to the wise and all that."  He winks, and Ben barely manages to avoid flinching at the sight.

Ben gives a low whistle.  "Twenty grand, eh?  That's the first I've heard of it."  He stands there on the sidewalk a few moments, weighing his suspicion of Jack versus his need to get off the street.  "Under the circumstances," he says, "I guess I could use a ride."  Climbing into the front of the Corvair, he pulls the passenger door shut before turning to face Jack.  "So Jack, why don't you tell me who it was that told you there was a contract on my head," says Ben with a smile.  "After all, I'm thinkin' that twenty grand pays for a lot of plastic surgery."

Jack smiles back at Ben.

Its kinda horrible.

"Hey Ben, you know the rules - just an honest price for an honest ride is all I ask.  The guy's name was Ishigawayama Honmaru.  I gave him a ride between D'Aubainne University and the entrance to Arms Barrio.  Now, where are you headed?"

"Hey, no offense Jack," says Ben.  "I'm just a little paranoid lately, for obvious reasons.  Take me to Wilma's Cafe in Sunken."

"OK, says Jack, "Wilma's it is."  The mutant cabbie reaches for the shifter and at that precise moment the passenger window shatters inwards in a spray of glass and something hits the dashboard.

"Oops," Jack says, "Time to go."  With a squeal of tires the coupe lunges into traffic like a gazelle with a lion breathing steam up its ass and accelerates madly.  Ben, pulling himself out of the foot well, notices that he has suffered nothing more serious than some minor facial cuts from flying glass, and that what appears to be a crossbow quarrel is imbedded in the dash over the radio.  It is still vibrating slightly.

"You carrying?" Jack asks nonchalantly as he swoops up onto the sidewalk, demolishing a sidewalk fruit and vegetable stand and covering the windshield momentarily with what appears to be mango pulp, crushing the hand cart of a sausage vendor, and causing a troupe of mimes to dive frantically for cover before swerving onto a side street and accelerating again.  "There's still someone after us."

Ben glances out the back window and notices that there are a half dozen individuals on motorcycles following the cab.  The bikes are large choppers with chromed exhausts, but the individuals riding them are clean-cut men and women in black pants, black shirts and...

...clerical collars?

As Ben watches in rapt fascination, one of them pulls out a length of heavy chain and begins swinging it over his head, then guns the bike and begins closing with the cab.

There is absolutely no doubt about it - Ben is being pursued by a gang of chain wielding priests¹.
 

Clerical Work

"Yeah, I got somthin' under th' seat," Jack says calmly.  He continues to dodge through traffic with the agility of a rabbit being pursued by wolves, the cyclists still hot on his tail.  "S' inna bag."

Ben begins fishing under the seat frantically, tossing half-eaten and moldy sandwiches, a pack of unused condoms, and several crumpled magazines out the window.  His efforts redouble when  one of the cyclists starts pounding on the trunk of the car with a length of chain.  After what seems like an eternity he comes up with a cloth bag containing - a slingshot.

But what a slingshot!  This ain't no forked stick with a rubber band on it!  Constructed of high impact polycarbonate composite for steel-like strength and durability.  Pulley system provides complete and recoilless follow through, enhancing speed and accuracy.  Prong extension produces a six-inch longer draw for increased projectile speed.  Tension adjustment system provides from three to six inches additional power band stretch for increased projectile acceleration.  Deep self-centering pouch for mistake-free shooting and spill-proof bird loads.  Interchangeable power band system, switched in seconds and instantly ready for use.  Padded contoured arm brace for comfort and stability.  Sculptured wraparound thumb and finger rests for optimum stability and accuracy.  Order one today!²

Also in the bag are 200 1/4" ball bearings.

"Neat, huh?" says Jack, standing on the brakes and causing the nearest pursuing cyclist to imbed his front fork in the rear fender, go sailing over the handlebars, and rearrange his face against the rear window, before accelerating away again in a squeal of tires.  "I mail ordered it.  E-commerce is great!"

Ben gives a low whistle of appreciation.  "Now that's a damn slingshot," he says with a grin.  He snatches up the sleek looking missile launcher with the eagerness of a kid bent on mischief.  "Wish I had one of these when I was young, I woulda been the terror of the neighborhood."  Pouring out a handfull of ball bearings, Ben leans out the window and begins peppering the pursuing priests.  THWAP!  THWAP!  THWAP!

The very first ball bearing  pops the pastor pretender  between the peepers causing the contentious clergyman to careen  carelessly and  crash.  Jack grins triumphantly at Ben (almost causing Ben to loose his lunch once again).  The remaining cyclists, having lost two of their number, decide that breaking off the pursuit is the better part of valor and cut down a side street, disappearing from sight.

"Ya know," sez Jack, "that's why I could never get into organized religion.  Whenever there's trouble they always seem to disappear."

Minutes later the cab, looking somewhat the worse for wear, pulls up in front of Wilma's.

"Here ya go, Ben.  That'll be $10.00 even."  Jack tugs at the crossbow bolt still embedded in the dashboard, but can't dislodge it.  "Giovanni ain't going to be happy about this," he mutters.  "Them Judas Priests owe for cab repairs."

"Damage incured while being chased by priests, most definitely an act of God, completely unavoidable."  Ben hands over the fare and climbs out of the battered Corvair.  "Take it easy, Jack, and thanks for the lift. I owe ya one."

Jack shudders involuntarily and again Ben feels nausea climbing up the back of his throat and grabbing his tongue.  "Don't say 'Act of God!'" the mutant cabbie gasps.  "Insurance never covers that!"  He pauses to control himself and rearrange his features in a somewhat less hideous manner.  "Could I have my slingshot back Ben?" he asks politely.

"Oh yeah," says Ben, looking down at the previously forgotten slingshot.  He reaches in the car and grabs the discarded bag which is still lying on the passenger seat.  He pushes the slingshot and the remainder of the ball bearings into the bag and hands it over to Jack.  "Try not to put out anybody's eye with this thing."

Jack laughs his lopsided laugh.  "That's a BB gun your thinkin' of," he says.  "Those are illegal."
 
 

Wilma's

Ben hasn't been inside Wilma's in a couple of years, but remembers it as a quiet place catering to tourists stressed out from some of the Edge's wilder adventures.  Wilma's is a nice, relaxed restaurant. Featured are homemade pancakes, waffles, French toast, every kind of egg dish imaginable and the Balboa Belly Bomber (a warm French roll stuffed with egg). At lunchtime, salads and sandwiches made from home cooked roasts, turkey and chicken take center stage. All Mexican dishes come from the family recipes of the cooks including homemade guacamole, enchilada sauce, chile rellenos and salsa.  You'll also find a variety of pasta dishes and fresh seafood.  Just the place to relax after escaping from the murderous intentions of chain wielding priests on motorcycles.³

Stepping into the well-lit, airy interior Ben catches sight of something that makes him halt in his tracks, too shocked to even move.  For there, before him, is an impossible sight - something that could not, cannot possibly be real!  Even as his numbed brain recites the fact, his eyes continue to receive the image, flatly denying any excuses that his brain might make.

The face is familiar.  Ben has seen it hundreds, if not thousands of times during his time on Al Amarja.  It is plastered on walls.  It is featured on newscasts.  Beloved by some, hated by others, feared by everyone and now, inexplicably, transported from the halls of power and privilege to a small cafe in Sunken.

Behind the cash register is Monique D'Aubainne, historic liberator, current shepherdess, and President-for life of Al Amarja.  She looks up from her work and smiles the trademark D'Aubainne smile - the smile which promises blessings to her favorites, protection for the masses, and wise guidance for the country.

"She looks a lot fatter in person," a small part of Ben's mind comments while the rest of it tries to figure out just how to handle this unexpected turn of events.  A cautious approach is definitely in order.  Pissing off Monique D'Aubainne is the equivalent to taking a power drill to your forehead.

With undeniable regal bearing, Her Exaltedness removes her considerable girth from behind the cash register, strides over to Ben, and addresses him in that supremely confident voice with its distinctive French lilt, the voice Ben has heard before on dozens of televised "State of the Republic" addresses and countless sound bites on AATV.

"Welcome in from the cold, my good man," she smiles, eyes sparkling like perfect sapphires.  "How may we assist you?"

Impossible.  That's the first thing that goes through Ben's mind.  What the hell would Monique D'Aubainne be doing moonlighting at Wilma's?  Impossible.  Besides, she really couldn't be that fat.  Fighting the urge to simply turn around and walk out, Ben instead decides to just ignore the fact that this person standing before him looks and sounds so much like Al Amarja's President-for life.

"You can get me a cup of coffee and a menu," says Ben brushing past her Exaltedness and heading for a table in the rear of the cafe.

The plus-sized Monique D'Aubainne dutifully follows Ben to the table and offers him a laminated menu.  "Sadly, we are experiencing a shortage of Chilean seabass at the moment," she reports, "but everything else on the menu is yours to order.  We highly recommend our world-famous Balboa Belly Bomber; it's nothing short of exquisite.  Your waitress will be here shortly with a bottomless cup of coffee.  If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to ask."

With a well-practiced smile, Her Exaltedness rather ponderously returns to her post behind the cash register, leaving behind a whiff of elegant perfume.   Beneath this delicate floral fragrance, Ben's nose detects other scents, a faint yet lingering fusion of what might be nicotine, paint and fried foods.

But perhaps that's merely the smell of the restaurant itself.

A tall, shapely form enters the dining area from the rear of the cafe, and makes it's way to an open area near the front of main dining room.  The way the form moves makes several pulses pick up speed.  The form is wrapped in a long black dress.  A dress so tight that it must be slit nearly up to the golden belt, cinched around a narrow waist, in order for the wearer to even walk.  The form's raven tresses are long in the back, but built up high on top.

When the form reaches the area under where a big green odd looking fish is mounted on the wall, it sets up a chair, and takes a guitar out of the case it was carrying.  When the figure turns to face the audience, it reveals that it's front is even more shapely then it's back, as revealed by the fact that the neckline plunges down to around the same area the skirt is slit up to.  "Hello, boys and ghouls, I'm Elvira, Mistress of the dark and your hostess with the mostest.  I just got back from the taking the Elvira-mobile to the mechanics.  I had my front end realigned, and my rear end adjusted.  After that he went to work on the car."

Elvira sits on the stool, and strums a little on the guitar, "Well, enough funny stuff, I just want to keep you all... abreast of a few songs I've learned."  She launches into a slow soulful version of "Cuts Like A Knife."  Elvira's deep SoCal valley-girl accents picks up a soft slight Italian lilt as the talking changes to singing.

Ben's head explodes. Blood spatters across the walls and tables, nearby patrons are pelted with little bits of brain, and the Mistress of the Dark herself is hit with several small pieces of bone with skin and hair still attached...

OK, Ben's head doesn't really explode, but it certainly feels that way as Elvira finishes her mechanics joke and pain suddenly lances through his skull. Ben grimaces with the sudden pain and rubs his temples while thinking soothing thoughts. His hopes of a quick recovery, however, are soon dashed as the black garbed banshee begins to sing and the agony in his head increases twofold.

"Socmel!" he curses. "Could this day get any fucking worse? AND WHERE THE HELL IS MY WAITRESS!?"

"Right here, darling..." a slim woman says as she puts down a steaming cup of coffee right in front of Ben.  The woman looks so much like a waitress that it's scary.  Her hair is long, curly and as blonde as you could possibly want, and while her pink waitress uniform doesn't allow for any cleavage, her breasts still do their best to escape to the outside world.  Better take cover in case they go off...

"Will there be anything else?" she asks with a lazy voice as she rests with one hand on her hip.  She ceases to chew her bubblegum in favour of blowing a huge pink bubble that almost prevents eye contact with those big, blue eyes.

Meanwhile, seeing that the audience received the offered song so well, Elvira launches into "Look Sharp", followed by a lounge lizardy version of "Mack The Knife", and some song sung entirely in Italian.

Ben looks up at the waitress.  "Yeah, I'll have a turkey sandwich and a couple of aspirin.  And if there's any way you can get that singer of yours to shut the hell up, I'd appreciate it.  She's about to give me an aneurysm."

"One turkey sandwich and two aspirin - coming up," she says as she scribbles it down on her notepad.  "And I'll see what I can do about the singer..." she says as she turns around and heads for the cash register, hips swaying and heels clicking.

The spectacle of Ben bellowing for his coffee serves to visibly agitate Her  Exaltedness, but now that Shirley's taking care of him, she relaxes a bit.  Every so often she throws a glance Ben's way just to make certain the situation is under control (relatively speaking) and the rest of her time is spent manning the cash register, seating patrons when they arrive, and grooving to Elvira's music.  "Mack the Knife" appears to be a personal favorite; she even sings along (quietly and just slightly off-key) with the "Oh, the shark" opening, first in English, then in Spanish.

"O el tiburon tiene dientes bonitos..."

Shirley walks by.  "That Burger at table seven doesn't like Elvira's singing.  I thought you'd better handle it," she says to Monique before walking off toward the kitchen counter.

Her Exaltedness offers Shirley a bone-weary smile, then does nothing for a time, seeming to fall into a deep depression.  The look of regal confidence all but disappears as she mutters: "Why me?  Why?  Where did I go wrong?"

Then she gathers herself together, composing herself with a breathy sigh.  She makes her way over to Elvira, waits patiently, and catches her between songs:

"Sweetie darling," she explains (her voice soft enough for Ben to have a hard time hearing -- assuming he's even interested), "the bourgeois burger at table seven is deathly allergic to good music.  He wants you to shut up.  My advice is to take a coffee break, wait until Shirley brings him his turkey sandwich, then get right back up here to belt out something really special when he takes his first bite."

Elvira nods.  "Alright folks, looks like it's time for a break.  I must go see  to my mummy.  She's a real witch, but her broomstick is slippery and she keeps flying off the handle.  She's nasty though, she like to put poison into boxes of Post Ghosties, and Count Chocula, she's a real cereal killer.  Thank you, thank you very much.  I'll see you all later, and....... unpleasent dreams."

Elvira puts the guitar in it's case and takes a seat at the counter, sipping on a cup of coffee and discreetly watching the table the complainer is seated at.

After a while Shirley returns to Ben's table with a delicious turkey sandwich on a small plate.  With a loud pop from her bubblegum she puts the plate down next to the cup of coffee, and Ben can now see that the sandwich shares the plate with two small pills.  The pills are still within their plastic casing, and they look very much like aspirin.

"Thanks Shirley," says Ben, who has visibly relaxed now that Elvira has stopped her caterwauling.

"Enjoy your meal, tiger," Shirley says with a wink.  Then she turns around and heads toward another table.

Ben picks up the aspirin and carefully removes them from the plastic.  He pops the two pills into his mouth and washes them down with coffee.  That done, he starts in on his meal, thoroughly enjoying both the sandwich and the silence.

Elvira waits a moment, and with a wink to the Fearless Leader of the Island Nation, slips through the kitchen and out the back door.  A stop in the storage room to grab another case, and an extra black box with a few dials.

Out the backdoor, and a trip around the building, to the entrance to the patio dining area, where there is a door leading to the area where the microphone is still set up.

Elvira flicks on the power switch to the electric guitar, thumbed up the power to the amp being carried, and stepped through the door... to the accompaniment of the opening power chords to "Wild Thing".  Soon, almost all the diners are singing along with Elvira to the classic old rock song.

Elvira's entrance catches Ben in mid drink.  Executing a classic spit take, Ben spews coffee in a shotgun pattern, showering several nearby patrons.  Vaulting out of the chair, his face red, eyes bulging, and teeth clenched, he takes a single step towards Elvira before regaining control.  Deciding against any violence, Ben settles for giving the Mistress of the Dark a murderous look.  A look that clearly says, 'If I weren't such a nice guy, I'd pull your tongue out with a pair of pliers, tape your mouth shut, and laugh while you choked to death on your own blood.'

Ben turns back to his table, tosses some money down, and grabs the remains of his half eaten sandwich.  Stomping unhappily out of Wilma's, he vows never to return, unless of course it's with a can of gasoline and a lighter.

"We thank you for your patronage," Her Exaltedness exclaims with mock cheerfulness at Ben's retreating form.  She then attempts to smooth things over with the coffee-drenched patrons (assuming they're not chasing after Ben with murderous intent) before pow-wowing with Shirley and Elvira.

"Madre de Dios!  It seems like all we get these days are deranged bitch-burgers," she grumbles, dropping the Monique D'Aubainne affectation for a moment.  "What do you suppose crawled up *his* panties and died?"
 

Ben stands outside Wilma's, finishing off the remains of his turkey sandwich while contemplating where to go next.  Definitely someplace quite.  Someplace he can just sit in peace for a couple hours until his meeting.  A corner booth in the hotel bar should do nicely.  That decided, Ben heads for Cesar's.
 
 
 
 

To Be Continued...