Because of the bacon.

Yeah, it looks good on the menu, sitting there at the rim of the plate. Glistening. Archetypally ridged and ruffled. Positioned perfectly next to the eggs over easy, the pancakes, buxom and buttered, the sausage links, dwarfed but respectable.

Net, the Grand Slam holds its own. At $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas), it's still a bargain. The eggs are fine. The pancakes are as good as any. The sausage links are, you know, OK.

But the bacon... The bacon b-a-con. A swindle, a masquerade, a false promise, a double-cross, tissue-thin, gossamer, anorexic, nervous (nervosa in Spanish), frail, skittish, fragile, and afraid. Overcooked, ipso brittle, short crust, and crumbling. Try to cut a slice, and "snap-chink!" Chips fly everywhere. The knife blade smacks the porcelain. The fork is stunned, helpless, its tines useless as the spoon.

"Crack!" Oh, I'm sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to do that. Do you want me to brush it off your plate? Hey, a little piece went in your salad, a bacon bit. Do you like bacon bits? I think they're good. And there're not usually made of real bacon."

What are you gonna do with your eggs now? The Grand Slam doesn't come with toast. Everybody's looking at you, waiting to see your next move. "Yeah, I like to mix eggs with my pancakes. You don't do that sometimes? Really? It's good. You want a bite? No? OK..."

It's not the cook's fault. What's he supposed to do? He can barely see the goddamn things on the grill. Can't blame the waitress or the shift manager. The pigs are probably regular size. You can't expect the stock holders to take up pitchforks. What do you want for $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas)?

It'll never change. That's why I no longer go to Denny's.

4:27 AM and I'm feeling grand slammed

weary bleary buzz-eyed the menu swims before me

to my left at the counter a couple does the breaststroke

to my right a dude dunks and dives into raw runny eggs

the color of sun rising sky will blossom in an hour or so

sizzle and stink of whiskey breath kisses linger in the air

as the gal slings a plate in front of me with flaccid pale sausages

black and white potatoes brunt frozen drowning in puddled grease

a maze of luminescent yuck scramble that turns me over uneasy

neon glare turns everything a queasy sickish slime green

in the lysol piss confessional I pray into poop clogged porcelain

still steaming layers of butt wipes not bothering to even try

jiggling the faulty handle's smeared shit rusted crusted glint

faucets run dry so I wipe my palms on towelettes from the floor

that's why I won't go down to the Dennys no more

I can see it so clearly, the late night into October. We had just both met or started talking, my curiosity hungered for more information about you. When the topic of "Favorite restaurant you ate at for your sport?" came home, we both had the same answer; Dennys. As you bewitched me with your convincing lies, I feigned ignorance because acknowledging how we were doomed from start was worse than anything in the world. The walls feel stained with the memories of our first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, ectcera time eating together. The time we spent ordering together, laughing together, and me---loving you all amounted to you leaving me when the number of the year change. That's why I no longer go to Dennys because your ghost is there sitting at the same table we ate at, waving at me. I no longer go to Dennys as I see you there with another. I no longer go to Dennys for I know while I had all my firsts with you, you had already had your firsts with another. I guess, this this why I longer go to Dennys.

It’s 5:30 am. I’m waiting, my foot tapping nervously in beat to the music playing in the background. I’m sitting in an orange booth, the leather seat ripped in at least two places beneath me. My menu has been spread on the table for well over twenty minutes.

Five minutes later, I’m still waiting. It would at least be nice to have a cup of coffee while I wait. I remind myself that it’s early – even though Denny’s is open around the clock and I’m only one of two people being served. There are only a couple of people working, after all: the waitress and the cook. “Be patient,” I chastise myself as I watch the waitress scrolling on her phone behind the register.

Finally! A hot cup of black coffee and an actual person standing by my table, taking my order. It won’t be long now before I’ve got hot food in my belly. I’m starving.

I’ve given her most of my order, when I quickly add, “Oh, can I also have a side of grits please?”

Still chomping her chewing gum, the waitress looks at me and without saying a word, points at the menu. Squinting, I read the fine print: “No grits served until 6:00 am.”

I steal a glance at my watch and see it’s 5:52 am – nearly 6:00 am. I give her my best smile and say, “I’m happy to wait for the grits. Just bring them after 6:00.”

Am I hallucinating from starvation or did she really just roll her eyes at me? She makes a major point of sighing while doing so. “Sorry, no grits. He has to cook them.” She gestures with another eye roll toward the cook.

I’m perplexed. My watch now says it’s 5:56 am. I point out to the waitress that it’s within minutes of 6:00 am. She's clearly exasperated now. “Like I said, he has to cook them. No grits.”

Without waiting for a response, she turns and heads back to the kitchen to give the cook my order - sans the grits. I shake my head and try to console myself by laughing at the absurdity of the situation. It's Georgia. It's the South for God's sake! Since when did cooking grits become so complex?

Thirty minutes later, coffee mug’s empty, and I’m waiting - yes, I'm still waiting. Resigned to my unwelcome hungry state, I stand, throw my baseball cap on my head, and shrug into my coat.

"Don't worry about the grits, " I yell sarcastically to the two employees who momentarily glance up at me from where they stand. As if.....

No damn grits. And that is why I no longer go to Denny's.

I check my watch. 9:36. He was supposed to be here a half hour ago. Shit. He's probably being tailed.

I should probably explain. I won't though. It's much too complicated, and I wouldn't even know where to start. I'm not one of those sappy "here's my life story" types. If there's anything life's taught me, I'm aware you couldn't give a shit about me.

He's our client. I don't know his name, and I have no desire to find out. We've been switching areas to avoid suspicion because I can't deal with cops on my ass. He must be good too. He never drops any hints. So I'm sitting in a shithole Denny's way earlier than I'd want to be. Like who meets at 9? But he always pays up.

He's not clean. Almost everyone is a mess. Twitching eyes, constantly licking their lips. Those are the signs the true addicts have given up on hiding. He calls too often to be a cop. If he did would've been brought to the Sugar Distributer Penitentiary.

King Kandy is known for his generosity. Except to normies. If he knew I was selling off my special acid trip licorice I would be dead. I know, so cliche. Yeah.

My name is Raymond Licorice. Never did forgive Ma for that one. Of course. The bad guy, getting poor innocent souls hooked on sugar.

Come on. I live in a cave. I'm not exactly rolling in dough here.

The client sits down. As always, clad in long brown trench coat, double rows of black buttons gleam like diamonds. A mask obscures his face, a hood covers his hair. Good grief, he looks like a third-grader's idea of a secret agent. He comes with a briefcase. Grey, cheap. Good. We both know it must be untraceable. He's just some rich asshole hooked on the taffy. Oh well.

"One pack RedVines, 15 grams of the black swirls" He says.

Of course I am more than supplied. A whole pack of RedVines? For a normie that could knock him out for a week. I wonder if he suspects where I get the merchandise. I wonder if he knows that I am the Lord of Licorice himself. I doubt he even knows about Candyland.

"1800" I price

He looks equally nonchalant

"1400"

He drives a hard bargain. It costs me about 10 bucks but whatever he'll fall for.

Surprised? What else would I be dealing in? Gumdrops? King Kandy changed our currency after the Gumdrop Revolution III. Whoever he can fuck over he will. Especially his dear uncle Raymond and his Gran.

"1600 take it or leave it" I reply

He nods and passes over the briefcase.

I open it. Gotta check. I watch his expression. Then I notice. He's moving halfway through him. It's like his lower body is fighting with his top half. Addicts do strange things, but this shouldn't be possible for anyone but... Gloppy.

Fuck. I'm getting busted.

And by Gloppy? He wouldn't be able to find his Chocolate Swamp and he's attached to it. (Or maybe it's him?)(Honestly, I don't care enough to ask)

"Alright fine Gloppy. You caught me." I mutter, hoping to gain the brown blobs' mercy.

"What's gloppy?" asks Gloppy, in a strangely high nervous voice that doesn't resemble Gloppy's deep, mascotish, dumb chortle.

"Take off the coat!" I yell

Slowly he takes it off. What the fuck is happening? It's two kids , no older than 10, sitting on top of eachother. He- or should I say they, shrugs guiltily.

Fuck this. And that, dear reader, is why I no longer go to Dennys.

(Hey thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at doing an actual short story. It may get continued, it may not. )

A little bald man sat in the corner with his coffee and strawberry stuffed French toast. A mother and her two blonde-haired daughters step out of the bathroom and stand in line at the counter. I waited in line at the fountain machine wanting to re-fill my cup.

Just then one of the employees steps out from behind the counter and asks me if I needed help. I politely declined, thinking the mother would be better served by him as her daughters were becoming impatient waiting for their Jr pancakes. The man persisted. I raised my glass and shook it at him, “just a refill,” I smile. He began with a shaking of his head, down turned lips and then a pointing of his finger, “not here,” he replies. “Excuse me?” I asked. “NOT here!” he responded, “you can’t fill your cup here.”

And that is why I no longer go to Denny’s.