Sarah Killian The Mullets of Madness
The waitress re-emerges, and the grease ball at the counter hollers at her, “Becks, get me some more eggs, will ya?”
“Not now, ya lug, I’ve got cust’mers,” the waitress snaps. I notice the nametag on her uniform reads ‘Becky.’ This must be Don’s younger sister, and therefore wife of the pig at the bar. The apparent fact that Grobe is mooching off of his wife being a waitress while he lives off of welfare checks makes me hate the bastard even more, and I find myself looking more and more forward to killing him by the minute.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Becky says, walking up to our booth and handing us each a menu. “Can I start ya off with some drinks?”
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