Clankings of what are probably illicit pots and pans in an illicit itself kitchen come from behind the counter through the greasy beaded glass doorway that separates the cook from the counter at the Habanero Hut--a clanking that sounds slightly more sinister than the normally innocent sounds of the process of cleaning cookware, as if the pots were being banged against each other for spite and not actually being cleaned. There is a dense, fruity, vinegary smell in the air as the fumes from the incipient hot sauce waft not at all gingerly through the restaurant (for the kitchen probably has no ventilation, or it has been uncomprehendingly blocked) and out the screen front door, off to assault passersby and to warn or attract potential new customers. The sauce is a special secret blend of hot peppers and other mysterious and perhaps illegally-imported ingredients, the featured ingredient of which is a closely held subvariety of the habanero pepper (capsicum chinense), the pepper thought to be the absolute hottest and mouth-searingest in the globe. As one might intuit from the name of the establishment, the chef of the Habanero Hut devotes himself to the morbid study and consumption of this pepper whose flesh can burn 20,000 more tongues at a bite than can a simple cayenne--unfortunately this is ultimately to the detriment of the establishment's fortunes, for as the habanero is a pepper enjoyed by only a few hardened weirdos, the restaurant (at the peak of the lunch hour, yet) has but a sole patron. To make matters even more fiscally dismal, the chef (and owner, if it need be said) has the habit of frequently presenting new creations to his favorite patrons, gratis.
It is such an occasion now, as Frog Hamilton sits in contemplation of the menu, soon to be the recipient of a featured new dish. He is attempting to decide between the "Ouch Burger" and "Devil's Eggs 'n' Grits", the former being a hamburger whose meat has been interspersed with much habanero flesh, served on a bun whose seeds are pepper seeds instead of sesame seeds, and served next to a cucumber pickle fermented in pepper vinegar; the latter being a slightly more simple concoction of scrambled eggs and grits which includes peppers at every stage of the process except the feeding of the chickens, although that has occurred to the chef and has been discarded as not yet economically feasible.
The beaded door makes an unsettling noise as it parts to let pass a man wearing a white apron decorated with a palette of dark reds and browns spread across the front. The man bears a plate and moves swiftly, somehow avoiding the many obstacles that must be cluttering the unseen floor behind the counter, including the napping cashier/waiter. Frog looks up as the plate is set before him. It contains an object of approximately spherical proportions which looks rather large for lunch. The object's aluminum foil covering shines in the fluorescent light of the restaurant.
The proprietor smiles and raises his left eyebrow. "It is called the 'Death Star'."
"Do I get to ask what's in it?"
"Please, just eat."
Frog, whose bravery has only seldom been so taxed, picks up the food object in both hands, peels back the wrapping, and takes a large bite, so as not to appear distrustful. He tastes tortilla, Mexican rice, black beans, sour cream, carne asada, but a mere tinge of heat, of which dearth he makes note.
The chef is quick to respond. "At the center you will find a whole pickled giant red habanero pepper, stuffed with minced pickled orange habaneros."
Frog understands at once, stuffs his mouth deep into the Star to bite the pepper, and soon makes appreciative sounds. "You may be a genius. I hope you don't go broke. Thank you."
The proprietor shrugs expressively, bows slightly, and retreats to the kitchen, nudging his sleeping employee gently with his shoe in the process of passing behind the counter.
The Death Star occupies Frog's plate as a Reubens occupies a room--it is impossible for him to look away, and even if he did he would still see it looming in his mind. A burrito-sphere concealing a bullet of death, he thinks its presence is rather aggressive for a mere lunchtime dish.
So engrossed is Frog in his meal that he doesn't even look up when the restaurant's screen door swings back violently, banging against the wall and imparting a rip (not the first) to a poster advertising a Japanese medical plaster.
Accompanied by a gust of warm summer air, Clifford Greer strides into the room wearing a smile that says he just discovered he's right about something and that someone is in trouble. He makes a beeline for Frog's table and clears his throat with a formal "a-hem".
Frog looks up and smiles. "Join me for lunch?"
"You turned off your beeper again, didn't you?"
"It must be out of batteries." He takes it from his pocket and presses the test switch. "What do you know? Dead."
"You probably put a dead one in there just in case I checked. Anyway‹"
"Sit down, I'll order you something."
Clifford makes a face and sticks out his tongue. "Bletch! I'd rather drink Drano than eat one of the colitis bombs they serve here. I'd hate to spend my declining years in any worse shape than I'll already have to." He sits at the table and scoots in his chair, which makes a sticking noise on the linoleum floor of the restaurant. "You have an appointment soon. You better get your butt moving or you'll be late. The customer specifically requested you."
"I thought I got promoted out of that stuff."
"That's what I had thought too, but that's not what Mom says. And we know who runs the show these days." Clifford hands Frog a printout, crisp and fresh and unfolded, pristine in a fashion that makes Frog wonder where Clifford was keeping it, anyway.
Rollover Consulting, Inc. 324 Irving Street, Suite 201 San Francisco, CA 94919APPOINTMENT NOTICE
Engineer: feh (Frog E. Hamilton) Arrive At: 1:00 pm, Wednesday May 6 1998 Client: Punjab International Video & Grocery Address: 2410 Geary, corner of 15th Description: standard check & fix Comments: complimentary (it's my fault. -rac) Scheduled by: rac Priority: 1 (no rescheduling, be on time or else)Printed courtesy of Mom, your favorite office manager.
Your Fortune: Loop, Endless: n., see Endless Loop
Frog's eyebrows rise to steep peaks, his forehead creasing. "Hey, this definitely wasn't on my calendar last night." He gathers his partially-eaten Death Star into its aluminum covering and inserts it into a bag from the counter, grabbing a few to-go containers of fresh habanero salsa and dropping a five dollar bill in the fold of the sleeping cashier's hat. He asks Clifford, "you going back?"
"I'll walk you. No, I should say 'trot you', because you'd better hurry."
Clifford and Frog leave the restaurant, turning left and then right onto Irving Street towards the offices of Rollover Consulting, Incorporated, at the corner of Irving and 10th.
The building at the corner of Irving and 10th is typical for the area except for a part of the second, topmost floor, which looks like it could have been a gun turret in a previous renovation. Now it has a proper pointy roof and looks like an old Victorian done over in bad stucco, circa 1967. Sometime soon after that, and not since, it has been painted a rusty yellow which threatens to remind one of a trailer park. On the bottom floor of the building is a dry-cleaning store, "Laundry by Bob Nebrig", run by an aging hippie who also owns the building and is therefore RCI's landlord. The landlord's name is actually Creek; he bought the building and business from Bob at some time in the mid-1970's and has been running it with a suspicious eye on the neighborhood ever since.
There is no sign for RCI, but a side door opens onto a steep stairwell that leads up to the top floor and the company's offices. Frog sprints up the stairs and into his office for his laptop computer, yelling "keys please," on the way out of his office. Computer in hand, he is about to pass the receptionist's office on the way to the stairwell as a set of car keys comes flying out the door just in time for him to make a perfect catch. "Thanks J. Random!" Frog yells as he tumbles down the stairs towards the parking lot.