Friday, June 10, 2011

Flash Fiction: The Italian Grill

They had worked together for two years in the hot, cramped kitchen.  The chef patron was hell on wheels and treated his brigade with disrespect and a cruel hand. That day, the staff, lead by the sous chef had decided something needed to be done.

Supper that day was somber. The chef was nowhere to be seen. A regular patron signaled Charles, the maitre d', over to her table. One of her cutlets had a tattoo.

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