Tuesday's Special

Nan grasped his heavy rolling pin like a fencer holding his rapier. He had spotted the two—those two—on their way to his diner again. They had stopped, this time, to gaze at the aged show bills plastering the side of the Yallown Theatre, but Nan knew that they were heading his way.   It would be the fourth time this week.   It was only Tuesday.   Upon spotting the pair, Nan had briefly, but seriously, considered not running the lunch special today. But—no. It was Nan's Diner, and there must be a lunch special, and it must come with pudding at the end.   But at what price?   The show bills had lost their appeal, and the two had resumed their approach toward the diner. The tall, gangly one was singing loudly as he bounced his way across the street. His strange voice made the tuneless song seem somehow both high-pitched and guttural.   The other one, the one with the mustache and that ridiculous hat, glowered menacingly and shook his fists at the traffic that honked and growled back at them.   "AP-ple salad, CHOC-lit pudding, BUT-terSCOTCH and PORK PIIIIIEEEES…" the song went.   That had been the lunch special on Monday.   It was not today's special.   Nan took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes as the jangly bell jangled, the front door opened, and his two very most enthusiastic customers ushered themselves into the little restaurant.   Nan hoped that they liked noodles.