as ralph had been reciting his poem, four persons had entered, followed by a cold wind.
at first glance the four persons appeared to be winston churchill, hammurabi the lawgiver, florence nightingale, and billy the kid.
but they were not really those persons.
the man who looked like winston churchill was actually philip edwards, and he had worked at the kenneth mason company for thirty years before being arrested for an unspeakable crime.
the man who looked like hammurabi the lawgiver was really walter wilson, a man who had shined shoes at waterloo station for forty years before writing a couple of bestselling novels titled “the thunder and the sun” and “ the forever girl”.
the young woman who resembled florence nightingale was bella brown, an aspiring actress and model just off the bus from brownsville.
and the clone of billy the kid was exactly that - a clone of billy the kid, and the property of doctor zemo, a scientist who refused to admit that there were things humans were not meant to know, and who was lurking outside the cafeteria, enjoying a chesterfield cigarette.
the quartet stopped inside the door as ralph finished his poem.
the zombie clapped enthusiastically when ralph indicated he had finished reciting his poem. the bag lady and the bounty hunter clapped too, but just sort of politely, especially the bag lady, who, if you were watching her closely, might have been thought to have been rolling her eyes a bit.
that was great, brother, the zombie exlaomed, that was really heavy, it really made me think, it was fucking awesome, it was the greatest poem i ever heard, you have a really beautiful soul…
i thought it was wretched stuff, the clown interrupted. the worst agglomeration of cliches of bilge i ever heard. although, he addressed the zombie, your approbation bids fair to outdo it in those regards.
the man who looked like winston churchill had drawn closer to the table occupied by the clown and the zombie.
i could not help overhearing the young man’s peroration, he put his two cents in, and i must say i agree our friend pierrot here that it was a rather poor production.
well fuck you, man, the zombie replied. that was a beautiful poem, this brother put his heart and soul on the line, and who are you, you whimpering hemmorhoidal little fat fuck, to be critical, huh?
hey, what is going on here?, what is going in here?
ma barker had emerged from behind the counter, and glared at the zombie.
sorry, ma, the zombie answered, hanging his head. i guess i got carried away. it’s just that …
it’s just that nothing. any more out of you and you are out of here and back in the graveyard.
ma barker turned to the man who looked like winston churchill and his three companions. can i help you, or did you come in to here to stir up the natives and cause trouble?
that was not at all our intention, madame, i assure you.
i hope not. go on up to the counter and place your orders.
yes, ma’am.
the childhood friend turned to ralph, who had broken down and was weeping openly, with great gasping sobs. come on, man, let’s get out of here. he grabbed ralph by his right arm and hauled him to his feet. then he turned to the zombie and his three companions.
thank you, folks, for your input. we bid you good evening.
hey, wait, said the zombie, he never answered your question.
i think the poem was the answer, said the bag lady.
of course, what was i thinking. thanks again, man, it was a great poem - and a great performance.
it sucked! the clown repeated.
the friend pulled ralph, who was clutching his half-eaten sausage egg and cheese sandwich, toward the door.
it totally sucked! the clown shouted again, but not that loudly, as the door closed behind ralph and the friend and they found themselves outside in the cold air.
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