“         I want waffles, and I want them now, See!!!” Croaked JoTa, their creepy leader of dastardly deeds. He waves a wet straight razor to try and impose his waffle will upon Maggie the waitress. She doesn't know whether to be scared or angry with his tone.
    “I want to hear screams of pain and agony again, loud screams. And…I want a blueberry muffin!” Implores Hates, the dashing right arm of the TrenchMouths. His brutality only matched by his ability to be bored by non-congenial behavior.

    “You think only of the meaner things in life, and never love, Hates.” Slithers the words from Na-B’s red-lipped-pucker-planter, those ripe-cherried kissers undulating in a wicked dance with her speech. So many had fallen victim to staring at them while the trap quickly closed in on their existence. A knife in their gut, a noose round their throat, their eyes still morbidly glued to the fleshy pillows that uttered the last sounds they would hear.      

“What’d you know about love, Na? You just lust after things, and suck the life from them like some kinda’ demonic leach, once you’ve trapped them in your clutches.” replies Hates Eternal.

    “I am gonna go see what deserts they have here to tickle my taste buds.” remarks Na-B as she saunters off to look for more trouble.

For some reason, the electric flitter of neon bulbs and the smell of drying blood had driven away most of those employed at this low lit canteen. Leaving only those that were too scared to move or too morbidly fascinated to leave. However, there was this was one curious waitress, who hung back and made the waffles, she made them with care and caustic burning green flames. She wanted to see what they were doing, see if they’d poison the well, and make red go down the drain. How she had loved that game, when she was young and of simple mind. But she wanted to hang tight, not yet having a dog in the fight. 

It was soon succinct that Hates had his mitts on her curvaceous hips, and helped her ply her trade at the grill. Though she felt aghast at his forwardness and thought she might cause him physical disfigurement if he did not remove his overly friendly felicity, she soon warmed to the flames of his breakfasty bravado, and entertained the idea of having such people be a group to which she could find camaraderie.

Behind this sweltering scene, another act of buffoonery was being displayed. Na-B was reminding JoTa of her ability to call the shots “You may be the head of this gang JoTa, but I am the neck it turns upon. I’ll fry that egghead of yours like a potato to put on a plate.” She gripped his skull and pressed his face firmly towards the fryolator, his eyebrows singeing with the spatter of grease. “ALRIGHT ALRIGHT!!! I got it Na-B!!!” He wanted to make the two waitresses full fledged members of the gang, yet she felt they should only be tag-a-longs, leaving her the Queen B and goddess of their underworld wanderings. “First they must pass tests to prove they are worthy. We will term them ‘Hellatonies’ and they shall be a flame to draw more moths to our cause.”


   

Inside the small bathroom JoTa practices some of his artistic bent with a can of spray paint and is soon suffered a bit of his own ‘indignity and shame’ as his mate Hates pokes fun at the misfortunes of JoTa’s gene pool. 

“Its cold in here” JoTa squealed, their disagreement was a scathing mixture of blasphemy and hilarity.


From outside this possessed premises of tasty treats, one could not tell that the inhabitants had initiated a cool new crew of fearsome fortitude. Any outsider would just notice a couple hoodlums and their deviant darlings puffing smokes and placating passerby’s, not having any wherewithal that there were atrocities arbitrated inside.

With The TrenchMouth gang and their new recruits, Maggie and Leah, they were ready to wreak havoc and conquer any quest they would undertake. All would wave a white flag in their onslaught, all would hail the blood stained marauders, and all would tremble at the coming apocalypse that would be summoned. 

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 The Story of White Flag and the Trench Mouths. 

    After devouring some butter-bathed waffles and washing them down with a maelstrom of black coffee, JoTa absquatulates toward the latrine, to render his memories in the calm, cold quiet of the tiled floor and porcelain pissers. On his way through the threshold of the hallway he sees Na-B and her newly found friend, a stray waitress, probably hiding in fear of the ruffians who now claimed the diner as their own. Like a spider with a fly, she draws the young server into the muffled silence of a phone-booth. The wicked hungers of Na-B’s obsessions sending an almost unheard of shudder up JoTa’s twisted spine.

    “What will you do with that tasty nibble?” he asks. 

    “Convince her to suffer indignity and shame.” She slithers.

“Along with some scandalous pleasure, I would imagine” he says, as he slinks by.


The cold air whipped at the azure-lit chrome of Zips Die-ner, the October breeze growing more frigid as it encompassed the three evil forms that walked lumberingly towards its entrance. Members of the Trenchmouth gang, blood speckled and enraged with a violent fire, fed by the recent flames of battle. A member of a rival gang had encroached on their turf, and it was their duty to make an example of such an act of impunity towards their territory.