Concrete pancakes

The pancakes in his gut were setting up like concrete on a hot desert day. Staying a while was the last thing on jack’s mind when the loud slamming of the diner’s front door brought everything back into reality.

“Those motherfuckers ran out without paying” the waitress was screaming as the cook was heading for the front door pumping a shotgun, his face flushed and full of bad intent.

Jack ran outside.

By then the cook had turned around and was on his way back in. The party in Booth 5 had gotten away, including Jack’s dame in distress.