Diner From Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

There was a handsome man about 20 years old. "Hi I'm Elena. Can I get your order, sir," I asked "Mhmm," he said looking at the menu, "what do you recommend?" He looked up at me and his eyes widened. "Everything is good here," I said not noticing his stare. "Oh, um. Just give me this," he said pointing randomly to the menu. "You're pointing at the diner's logo." 23 "Oh um. This is awkward. Just give me some coffee and some pancakes." "Coming right up."

I agreed. The waiter chuckled, amused, before taking our orders. Russo ordered a rich non alcoholic red wine for both of us, and I opted for water on the side. After scanning the menu, I decided on a truffle pasta with grilled salmon, while Russo ordered a perfectly seared steak with mashed potatoes. Once the waiter left, I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. “So, are we going to pretend like you didn’t absolutely suck at that dance battle earlier?” Russo groaned, rubbing his temples dramatically. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

Dante was finished with his meal long before I was, and I cleared my throat, seeing his eye twitch. “You,” I gestured to two of my men. “Send the body for an acid bath. Not one trace should be left.” I let my words trail off, the ‘or else’ implied unspokenly. “Yes Don,” the two men chorused and got to work. Instantly the diner was alive again, with swift movements. One of Paolo’s people cleared the plate from the table while I returned my gaze to Dante’s. The dim lighting painted his skin in warm hues, with rays of the moonlight streaming in through the window. He looked delectable.

MILES "Do we eat free or something?" I asked, stepping into the retro diner Marcus brought us to. It was called The Dine and Dash, and I was in love with it instantly. The walls were lined with colorful, vintage décor, the cozy booths were plush with upholstery, and the checkered floor gleamed under the lights. A jukebox sat in the corner, playing an old tune, and even the waitress was in a poodle skirt. This place had character. I scooted into a booth, Marcus sliding in beside Dom across from me. My eyes scanned every inch of the diner, taking in the warmth of it.

There was no echo, as if he’d spoken into a hungry vacuum that swallowed his voice. He passed a cursory glance around, seeing nothing unusual. A chipped Formica counter ran the diner’s length on one side. Booths with dull, faded red leather cushions lined the other. Along the counter stood evenly spaced stools with red, round cushions that looked like gigantic push-buttons on a toy radio. Behind the counter gaped a rectangular window peering into the kitchen beyond, through which a short order cook could slide plates and trays, presumably ringing a bell and barking out orders in a clichéd, gravelly voice.

Fortunately for Mary Sue and me, this isn’t a slasher movie and probably the worst ‘secret ingredient’ we can expect to find served here is squirrel meat. As we enter the diner, a bell over the door signaling our entrance, the first thing I notice is a rotund, greasy man sitting at the counter, wearing torn jeans, a camo ball cap, and what was probably once a white wife beater, but is now more of a sickly greenish-grey rag with armholes.

He stuttered as he stepped back, away from Preston. “Alpha Preston” Mr. Baldwin quickly stepped in, smiling wildly as he approached Preston “Welcome to my diner” “Diner?” he scoffed “It looks more like a war house” his eyes darted to the troublesome customer who had insisted that I had put hair in his meal. Mr Baldwin chuckled nervously “It was just a little misunderstanding, and he was just leaving, aren’t I right?” He asked the troublesome customer who quickly nodded and scurried away from the diner.

Emory’s stick sailed off the overlook in a long arc and disappeared into the tree line below, and there was a brief cheer from the guardrail, and the moment closed, and everyone started drifting back toward the cars. The diner was twenty minutes back toward town, a low building with a neon sign that had been half-burned out for as long as any of us could remember, and a menu that hadn’t changed since before we were born. We took the big booth in the back. Emory immediately started reading from the laminated specials card in the voice of someone giving a TED talk. “Today,” he intoned, “we offer a journey. A culinary odyssey. The pot roast.” “Stop,” Maekynzie said, already opening her menu.

I needed coffee, and I needed to escape Henri’s oppressive silence for five minutes. I pushed the door open. A bell jingled overhead. The diner was warm, smelling of grease and coffee. But the moment I stepped inside, the conversation died. At a booth near the back, five men sat. They were massive. Just like the guards at the gate, they were built like tanks, wearing t-shirts that strained against biceps the size of my head. They weren't eating like normal people; they were devouring plates of rare steak with a ferocity that made my stomach turn.

She smiled to herself, took care of her cups, and left. "Are you sure?" Declan asked again as he juggled his phone and a pan over the stove. The phone against his ear, and the pan over the stove, that was. He hadn't put his Bluetooth on before deciding that he would call Dupontin the middle of cooking the next day. Dupontwas already back at his home before Declan was even up. "Because I already have the food together. Mostly. I just would need to bring—" A chuckle over the line interrupted him. "I assure you, Declan, I am just fine. Your meals the other day were more than enough, for both me and the gendarmes. I am already home, and am looking forward to making something for myself, somethin