This was in response to a flash fiction challenge suggested by Sci-Fi Ideas.
It never fails, thought Chan sourly: Wait for a nice, quiet afternoon, good weather, mild distractions, and good quality ingredients for me to make some of my best dishes; and that’s when some Russian Blue comes along and spoils it all, yelling into his phone like it’s across the street, coughing up hairballs into his soup and pissing off the locals.
Chan was acutely aware of the nasty look the Blue was getting from his other customer, a hairless that was on the way to becoming a regular… chances are, he’d have second thoughts the next time he came in this direction. More business lost, along with an afternoon ruined.
All because of one. Russian. Blue.
Chan found himself praying that the stool would give way under the Blue’s obnoxious bulk. He knew his Grandmother, rest her soul, would have boxed his ears for even thinking it… but he couldn’t help himself. Even now, he thought he could hear wood splintering under that fat ass… did the Blue hear it? He couldn’t possibly hear a small war over his blathering.
Any moment now, Chan begged his ancestors: Please end this, before his food gets any colder.