His tie was cranberry. His suit, black silk. He smelled as if he perspired Calvin Klein. And his shave was unimaginably close. Yet, when all was said, he was still hideous. There was nothing more terrible in God's creation than this man. Once beautiful, but now, well...

    The bell jingle-jangled as he stepped into the diner. It smelled like potato farts, but he inhaled deeply.

    "Smells good," he smiled big at the waitress.

    Normally she would have chatted him up and complimented his clothes, but she didn't. She couldn't. Instead she led him to the table most out of view of the register, dropped a menu, silverware, and mumbled, "be back."

   He nodded gratefully. Around him, people did their best to seem disinterested. They failed, he was too much to ignore. A young girl turned and waved. He waved back with a coy smile.

    "Allisson, you eat your food," her father barked gruffly, turning her away from him.

   "What can I get you?" Asked to waitress. Staring holes in  her notepad.

   "Oh, well, lemme see... How 'bout we do this? Gimme a two steaks, rare, and a side of mash with about as much gravy as you can spare."

  "D-drink?"

  "Oh yeah. Two cokes, no ice. The warmer the better."

  She scampered off to place to order. He sure was creepy.

   On the counter sat a fishbowl filled with cards, and the man turned to it with great purpose. He stood, reached in his jacket pocket and pulled an immaculate white business card,

                             Dante DaGuedece

                                     Realtor

    The number was unremarkable. Every customer peeked over at him as he dropped it ceremoniously into the bowl with the other flat fish. He sat back down and placed a napkin over his lap, paper of course.

    The waitress, returned, emboldened now by his act of normalcy, and asked, "What d'you do?"

   His smile stretched from ear lobe to earlobe, his teeth small and wet.

    "Why, I sell dreams," he laughed.

    "Oh yeah?" She chuckled back.

     "Yeah, houses, condo's, you know."

     He took the plate out of her hands as she stared at him. He stuck his face to the steak 'till it rubbed the surface. A char-mark in his nose.

     "Smells good."

    The waitress giggled, calm now, and pointed.

     "Good enough to wear," she ribbed.

     "Oh," he said wiping it with a long brown finger.

     "And now, " he said reaching in his pocket again,  "for something special.

     It was a pepper shaker, filled with large pepper flakes, or so it seemed.

    "What'chu got there? Don't trust our cooking?" She said, kidding again.

    "Oh, no, nothing like that. It's just a little something from home. Care to smell?"

    She hesitated, "No, I'll pass, give me a hollar if you need anything else."

      "Just the cokes."

      "Right! I'll be right back."

      He shook out the black flakes, long and narrow, all over his plate. As he did so, some clouds blotted the sun momentarily. The waitress returned.

    "Sorry."

    "No worries."

    He took a long drink and looked in right in her eyes as he slaked his thirst.  She couldn't hold his gaze and looked at his pepper-heavy plate. It wasn't ground pepper, and it wasn't red pepper flakes. They almost looked like chocklate sprinkles or rat turds.

     "Love coke," he said digging into his plate.

    His meat was bloody pink in the center and he hummed at he chewed it, mouth open.  The waitress again retreated. He ate like an animal, and those who watched him were disgusted and fearful. He ate like a starving man, groaning, grunting, lip-smacking. His manners were as ugly as he. He sopped up the remnants of gravy and 'pepper' with a finger. Then picked up his plate and licked it. Smearing his visage in brown.

    The other patrons looked at him agahst. He smiled a dirty tooth smile and bottoms upped the second coke. The sun came out of hiding. He looked out the window, threw his head back and burped. The sun seemed to hide again behind a rain cloud this time. The diner was silent. He dropped a hundred dollar bill on his table, wiped his face, straigthened his tie, and walked out.

   The waitress, wearing a look that preceeds vomiting, bussed his table. Had left his pepper. She picked up the little glass dispenser and noted how heavy it was. And warm, very warm. She risked a sniff.

   The waitressess' head hit the table with enough force to up-end it, sending the plates and bussing tray flying. For a moment, no one moved, just stared. Then the cook came around the counter, saw her down and  called 9-1-1. A worried patron lifted her from the floor and put her in a booth. She still held the pepper. He took it and slipped a sniff...