Sally wiped her brow as she plonked her butt down on a seat at the counter. She leaned her head onto her folded arms and began gently swiveling side to side. It was just after 3am and the rail-style diner was still yet to have it's gas and electricity connected after the move from Jersey.

"1 o'clock huh?" she said between a long drawn out sigh, relieving some of her frustration but not nearly enough.

She'd been waiting all night for the crew to arrive. She'd removed all of the rubbish and made sure it was ready to be given some life before the utilities were hooked up this coming afternoon. And since then, there were only so many things to wipe and so much pretending to clean she could do before her mind worked itself into fatigue.

Sally fiddled with a bracelet she'd found as she closed her eyes. Her mind started drifting..

"No!"

She snapped herself awake and sat up straight. 

"So much to do, so little time!" she said while brushing downwards on her dress to keep her mind busy again. It's something her mother use to say as she pottered around the house.

Then, for a reason unbeknownst to her at the time, something caught her eye. But she couldn't see it, exactly, she just all of a sudden knew where the to find it. Up she stood, slowly but steadily and tiptoed around to the inner side of the counter. 

Looking dead ahead, Sally reached under the counter, fiddled around and removed a...

SALLY SNAPPED AWAKE.

She gasped for air, but paused. Was this really air she was breathing? Was this the real world? Or was this really the dream world? She fiddled with a red bowtie she had clipped to her hair, perplexed.

But all the while, fiddling away, furrowed brow and bob haircut tilted to the side, the thought that something might actually be behind the counter didn't leave her. Nah. There can't be... .. Right?

Slowly, but steadily but now fiddling with the bottom of her white thigh high dress she stood up and tiptoed around the counter. She smirked, as she looked dead ahead, finding the humour in it all. She reached her hand under the counter, fiddled around and.. The smile faded.

It was metal, what she could feel as she ran her hands over what now felt to be cylindrical in shape, with a point right at the tip but that wasn't the tip..then it started to click as she felt firstly a bit of tape and the chamber and cool handle of a revolver. With both hands under the counter and some elbow grease, her 5"2 frame yanked the gun and her balance right out from under her. She fell back, braced herself with her arms best she could and slammed backwards into the side of the metal grill.

"Shishkebabs!"

What a nightmare. She pulled herself to her feet and caught her breath while leaning against the counter. A few deep breaths and she couldn't help but laugh.

Remembering the gun she'd just somehow dreamed of then found in the diner, she couldn't take her eyes off of it.

"What in the hell?"

She was excited. How? Why?

Then suddenly the jukebox started playing. It lit up first, out of nowhere and startled the shit out of Sally. There was no electricity connected. Sally had candles placed all over the diner.

She was speechless. She couldn't move. She wanted to, but she was too afraid to. She stood there frozen, her mouth agape and her eyes almost popping out of their sockets, holding the revolver in front of her with both hands.

Then, it felt like the floor was moving. She could feel it underfoot, like tremmers after an earth quake. A radio down the far end of the counter popped on and started playing. The dial started changing and flicking through the different stations, pausing a moment when a signal was strong enough to produce some music, then flicking onto the next, repeatedly. Then the walls started shaking.

Sally was still frozen, not knowing what else to do but watch on as everything around her in the tin rail-car diner shook and rattled and made a hell of a racket. 

The street lights outside the diner then started flicking on and off, all down the street until.. everything.. suddenly.. stopped.

In the blink of an eye it just all stopped. Sally shook her head in disbelief. She was still holding the revolver. She glanced down at it, then back up. She glanced over at the jukebox. It was off and lifeless. The radio, the same. The street lights outside were back to normal and everything seemed as before. 

After mindlessly walking back around to the other side of the counter, Sally awkwardly slid onto the first barstool. Gobsmacked, she placed the revolver down.

She rubbed her eyes, "Was that real? What's happening to me?"

She stopped rubbing and opened her eyes. The candles on the counter and the tables left a soft glow around the place.

DING.

She blinked and froze again. The door had opened behind her. There was a moment of silence before a footstep and another and another were heard heading her way. Out the corner of her right eye a figure approached the counter. They took a seat.

WHAT. THE. HELL?!

She was petrified, she was scared to look, but she had to! So she slowly, verrrreey slowly turned her head to the right. She identified a male figure, probably in his 40s or so in blue jeans, denim blue jacket with a long sleeve shirt untucked. He had on a truckers cap with light brown hair that spilled out the sides. 

The stranger was leaning onto the counter somewhat, just due to his size and the height of the stool. But she couldn't see his face, just the side of it which showed a full light-brown beard.

"Ah, sir?" Said Sally meekly.

No response.

"Sir?"

Still no response.

Sally was taken aback. The guy hadn't moved. He was breathing though, as she could see his chest moving.

"Sir? We're not actually opened yet, sir."

She felt her confidence to speak returning.

"Ah, there's an opening on the fifteenth though if you'd like to come back? I mean, it's just that..."

Sally looked around.

"There's no electricity yet, sir, so I can't fix you anything and we honestly don't have anything here to fix anyways..sir?"

"I understand." said a gravelly voice.

"Oh you do?"

Sally felt relieved.

"Phew."

But he still wasn't moving.

"Ah, but then sir, why are you? I mean, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but you're still here even though we're closed and there's no.. running power, I just.."

"Sugar."

"Sugar, sir?"

His head jolted to look directly at Sally. His face seemed a little.. weird, like it were stretched a little too tight.

"Yes, sugar."

Sally tilted her head to the side with a puzzled look on her face, "But we, we don't have anything here, sir. It's empty, besides the furniture."

"No, sugar."

He pointed towards the gun that was sitting on the counter to Sally's left.

"Sugar."

Sally glanced over at the gun.

"What?"

She felt the need to quickly turn back around and caught the stranger starting to lunge at her. She pushed her arms out in front to fend him off, shoving on his chest as he edged forward. She could see that his pupils and eyes were completely black.

BANG!

It all happened so fast. The body dropped to the ground. Sally was holding the gun in both hands, still aiming at the body, a trickle of smoke wafting off the point.

Sally kicked the guy's foot. She kicked it again.

"Fuck!"

Her hands began to shake. She stepped forward and went to kick his thigh when his big mitt snapped at and grabbed her ankle..

SALLY JERKED AWAKE.

She found herself seated on the ground in front of the fryer. She groaned and rubbed the back of her neck. As she laboured to get up she noticed the gun was on the floor. 

So that part was real, she thought, grabbed the gun and pulled herself to her feet.

And just after she had stood up straight, and with the revolver in her right hand dangling at her side, which had the word 'sugar' etched into the barrel, and looking straight ahead at the door..

DING.

..the front door of the diner opened..

+++

On the wall of the rail-car diner, there's a photo of Sally and the diner's owner and cook Sammy. They are posing together for a newspaper photographer in front of the restaurant on opening day. Underneath the photo it has the caption: Roswell, New Mexico.

I liked quiet places the best, but only the intentional ones. A library, for example, is the sort of place that absorbs stillness. If you walk into a quiet library, you don't just hear the silence around you- you hear all the silence that has reigned there during the days and decades since it was built. 

The diner that I found myself walking into was the opposite. It was filled with a horrible quiet that drenched the walls and dripped from the ceilings, and it was all the more pronounced because of how alive you could feel the place once was- like a party that had come to a crashing halt. 

A thin layer of dust covered the once vibrant walls and faded old photographs. As soon as I'd unlocked the door and forced it open, I'd heard the scurrying sound of mice or rats. I preferred to think they were mice. But even that was better than the oppressive silence that was even worse than the stale, trapped air.

"Well, they did tell me it was a bit of a fixer upper..."

There were about a dozen booths that stretched out along the walls and windows, and a long countertop dominated the center. Squinting through the sun-illumined dust, I could imagine the crowds: businessmen in on the weekdays mornings, brunch crowds recovering from the night before, and late night gatherings stretching past midnight.

But if my sources were correct, the diner had much more to share. I walked deeper into the diner, turning past the counter and heading into the kitchen, which looked like it'd been abandoned halfway through breakfast thirty years ago- like some sort of pancake-based Pompeii. There were two walk in refrigerators standing right next to each other. The first one smelled like a tomb, but I struck gold with the second. It only took a few moments to find the slight indentation; after leaning on it hard for a few seconds, I heard a satisfying click and the back of the fridge swung open, revealing a set of stairs that descended into the darkness. 

Turning on my flashlight, I moved down the steps and couldn't repress my grin. There had been fancier speakeasies, but this one- called Sunny Side Up by its regulars- had been legendary for showing its clientele a good time. The combination of re-legalized alcohol and the death of the owner had led to the abandonment of both the diner and its secret room. Hell, I could barely imagine the 20's- it was inconceivable that people had to go to such lengths to get a drink. The old timers talked about it like they were the good old days- that that's when the mafia was really strong. But maybe the good days weren't gone for good.

There was nothing left in the shelves behind the bar, of course. But above the empty shelves was a gleaming revolver mounted in an airtight case. The sandalwood grips seemed warm, and even I- not one who knew much about guns- was impressed with the gleaming silver of the weapon. It took me a long time to pick the lock, and scattering of broken lockpicks littered the floor around my feet before I held the gun in my hand. It seemed old- a relic of a lost age, just like the speakeasy around it. What would the old-timers here say, if they were here now? Were the good old days really gone? 

Gripping the gun and smiling, I didn't think so.

Maybe- just maybe- the wheel would turn again, and laughter could return to the old, empty spaces where it had once reigned.

Georgette Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax family of Charborough was stood in her living room and had been for quite some time. The woman tapped her foot impatiently while the voice on the other end of the phone line prattled on. and on. And on. And on some more. Making the occasional listening noises, “oh, mmmhmmm, yes, Oh I agree.”  Georgette’s hands moved, unseen by the person on the phone. The woman was gesturing for the disembodied voice to hurry the fuck up, because so far nothing they had said mattered to her. Eventually, after what felt like hours, which was probably only forty minutes or so, they bid their goodbyes and Georgette was able to escape the personal hell that was indeed a rather mundane telephone conversation. 

Her doorbell rang and instinctively, the woman who wanted to just be fucking left alone, tilted her head back slowly and let out a groan of frustration. Taking a moment to do the cliched rubbing of the forehead, tutting sounds, and then straightening her clothes Georgette left the living room to the foyer where the doorbell rang once more. 

Since they were impatient or couldn’t take a fucking hint, Georgette decided to look around the foyer of her flat in New York. Her place was alright, she hadn't expected she'd be sticking around, but so far Immigration appeared to be rather casual when you slid a few hundred thousand to the right people. No roots set down, outside of her friendships with those in New York. Pulling her out of her thoughts, the doorbell rang a third time and Georgette swallowed hard to force herself not to scream. 

Opening the door Georgette put on her fakest smile and her nicest voice, "Oh hello! How can I help you?" she asked, and then once again was stuck in another pointless conversation. Holding up her hand up to silence the person after a few minutes, Jesus these men never knew when to shut up, she said "Can we get to the point?" 

And that was why she was stood here at the very end of January outside some shitty run-down diner in Chicago. Arms wrapped around her, shivering, and wondering if the few million offered to renovate this shit hole would even be worth it. The windows were boarded up and painted over. The awning over the door probably once looked decent, but now hung at an angle barely clinging to whats left of the faded paint on the brick. 

Resigning herself to her fate, Georgette Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax family of Charborough moved closer to the building. She pulled out her cigarette case and a pack of her matches. Lighting one, shaking out the match, and tossing it to the side. There was no time like the present, even if the present was pretty fucking grim, and thus the woman went inside. 

Standing there she puffed on her cigarette, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness of the inside. Once they had she spotted what she needed and made her way to the kitchen. Turning a few knobs, a hiss filled the air. Flicking her cigarette into the sink, Georgette nodded to herself mostly. 

“No one gives a shit, least of all me.” She said to the empty derelict building that was a dime a dozen these days. She lit a match, held the flame to the matchbook and once it caught she tossed it near the gas stoves on a pile of discarded dishrags and then turned to walk away. 

Cool people never looked at renovations. 
 

'The Summit' was nestled a stone's throw from the bustling Strip and should, for all intents and purposes, have been bustling itself. Instead, it looks like a dilapidated husk, a book with the spine torn out, windows searching for glazing, a fascia carrying the diner's identity barely clinging on to the frontage.

"Look at the fucking state of this," Saddle mused to himself, nudging the door of open with his foot and wrinkling his nose at the smell. He couldn't decide which of his first impressions was worse; the heady aroma of rot set deep into the timbers, the sprouting blooms of mycelium against the skirting boards or the scattered patches of daylight visible between the roof slates where the saturated plaster had lost its battle with gravity and collapsed across the checkered linoleum floor.

The once-alluring neon sign hissed, sporadically. A warning, maybe? Saddle sighed and stepped over the threshold, immediately regretting it as his foot splashed in a grimy puddle. The roof was the biggest problem then, seeing as the rain had pissed through and pretty much wrecked everything else. He took a deep breath and tried to take in the vinyl booths, sparse menu board and the oak counter, trying his best to ignore the cracked upholstery, the lifetime of rings worn deep into the timber by countless cups of coffee, the layers of dust and the cobwebs dancing across the lot. He had expected his first tasks for the crew to be pretty nasty but this...this wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

"Why did I have to mention construction?" he lamented, picking his way across the warped floor. That had been his first mistake. Well, first was generous and fourth or fifth was probably more accurate, or he wouldn't have been explaining his experience to a gang of thugs hoping to be taken on. The joists groaned under his foot and a tentative stamp confirmed what he already knew; they would all need to be ripped out. Maybe the kitchen would be better.

The kitchen wasn't better.

The louvre ranch style doors creaked and then unceremoniously crumpled to the floor as he put a hand to them. Any hope of gleaming appliances had long since faded as they were so deeply encrusted with rust and burnt on God-knows-what, the family of rats which looked like they had once called the range home had clearly decided they could do better. Something was dripping from somewhere onto the floor and it hadn't started recently; the plate sized hole into the foundations gave that away.

And the smell. Jesus Christ, the smell. Saddle edged forwards towards a pot standing alone on the service station like a homing beacon, inviting inspection. The cast iron lid was firmly affixed on the top but he couldn't help himself and was pulled ever closer to it, knowing he wouldn't like the answer and yet the question had to be answered. What was inside?

The gravitational pull of the pot eventually snapped him into its orbit and he inevitably set a hand to the lid, cautiously lifting it and peering inside. The stench was like a punch to the mouth and he recoiled with horror, the lid clattering to the floor as he threw it aside. "Dirty fucking bastards!", Saddle snapped as he eyed the enormous turd, a disgruntled former occupier had left him as a welcoming present, "some hidden gem. 'The Summit', my fucking arse."