Chapter Text
Time: April 24th, 8:37 A.M.
Location: Unspecified.
Place: Anita's Diner.
People in The Round Booth: 1.
"Gee, I'd love to know who Anita is. Maybe I could teach her how to get some better fuckin' table service." Ignignokt played with his menu. The waitress, an unidentified but extremely tired woman in what appeared to be her late thirties, had given him a kids menu. While he was irritated at first- you'd rather not here the various threats of violence spouted in the 10-second window where she could still hear him as she walked away- he looked to be making the most of it now. He folded the paper in half, then folded a triangle down to the crease on each side. When in annoyance, there was always paper airplanes. As the rain spattered against the window, he took a deep breath and shut his eyes.
"Paper airplanes are the only form of art actually worth making."
He blinked and scoffed at his own words. "Ugh! Sounds like something Err would say." he shouted. It was an acceptable environment to shout in, because the entire diner sounded like a zoo. For a place so tiny and inconspicuous, it was notorious for promoting the mentality of "the worse the neighborhood, the better the food," because it was delectable. Awards adorned the walls in amounts like pores on your body. Shiny gold plaques and medals were scattered about in amounts shocking to a newcomer. Not to Ignignokt, though. He strolled in and ignored both the sparkling walls and the "please wait to be seated" sign and sat at the only booth that wasn't crowded with some family brunch or other large, loud, obnoxious meetup. It was a circular booth, one you'd expect people to be crowded around. But it was empty, and when he sat down, he was the only one that sat down.
For now.
He finished folding his paper airplane and tossed it at the barstool-lined counter, which was no more than five or six feet away from him. It landed into a fry basket and was subsequently fried. He chuckled quietly. Solitude was okay, actually.