George was also proud to be a founding member and chairman of the illustrious Picture Perfect Simontown Society, or the P.P.S.S as it was more commonly known. A grand old organization that has with a certain amount of zeal made it their mission to tear down all billboards or other unseemly advertisements, signs and logo’s that detracts from the serene skyline of their picturesque little beach town.
Currently he has been in an ongoing, bitter and almost bloody feud with the owner and chief fry cook of the Grease Coffin, Dixie Bannerman, about the ludicrous name and sign he chose for his Diner. George would sometimes ask himself as he eagerly paged through one of his collectables in the tool shed, what was wrong with a nice normal name like "Family Fries", "Happy Burgers" or his personal favourite "Yummy cove" - all suggestions that were submitted to Dixie in at least fifty lengthy lawyer letters in the last two or so years. In fact, George would consider eating his breakfast somewhere else entirely if the food here wasn’t just so damn good.
Nowadays George has resorted to getting his revenge via a new paintball gun he purchased off a kid with bad acne. He got it from him at a steal, and a bargain always brightened George’s day immensely.
He sometimes giggles like a little girl when he sees Dixie and that immense idiot Dusty staring at the neon bright hues sprayed all over that awful sign every morning. He reminded himself as he took a bite from his toast that next time he should get paintballs that do not wash off so easily. Maybe some green ones. Yes, green is good.
Greg and Henry surveyed the scene and just as they were about to approach George an angelic face popped out of the kitchen. Myra smiled a broad, inviting smile and her bright emerald eyes made Henry's knees buckle immediately.
"Oh! Dixie said two people came in. Have a seat and let me get you some menus." Greg was quick to interrupt as he flashed his badge: "We are not here for breakfast miss; we are here to have a word with Mr. Bannerman. Is he in the kitchen? Can we go through?" Myra gave Greg a friendly nod and led the way through the large swinging kitchen doors.
Henry worked part-time as a waiter while he was studying for his police exams and thus he has seen many a restaurant kitchen, but nothing could prepare him for what he saw now. Not only was it triple the size of most restaurant kitchens, but it had all the finest cooking tools and utensils money could buy. Everything, from top to bottom, was extremely clean - just as if all the utensils, ovens and counters were just unpacked, freshly installed and promptly disinfected with a certain amount is gusto.
At the double wash basin on the left hand side, a young, well built man whistled the same Pixies tune that was playing over the jukebox. He had jet black, shortly cropped hair and was wearing a tight fitting, white Calvin Kline t-shirt tucked into a stone washed pair of Levi jeans which was rounded off by a black leather belt with matching chic silver biker belt buckle and some fine black leather shoes. A mischievous but friendly smile was plastered all over his face as he greeted the policemen with a nod. He was half leaning against the white tiled wall as he absent-mindedly dried a newly washed plate.
Immediately to their right, Myra was putting her notepad on a counter and pointed to a man in the back of the large kitchen that was holding something close to his face: "Well, there you go guys. Dixie is right over there."
As the policemen approached him an awkward scene greeted them. Henry struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Dixie was a tall, thin man. He had a closely cropped and styled beard which was very neatly kept. His black, slightly curly hair was a bit floppy and had streaks of gray peppered throughout. He was dressed in the most garish blue and yellow flower pattered Hawaiian shirt Henry has ever seen and his outfit was rounded off with khaki knee high shorts and hot pink beach sandals.
While his appearance was obviously a by product of an underdeveloped sense of style it was all still fairly normal. The very thing that Henry could not comprehend was the sheer size of Dixie's humongous nose. Added to that was the fact that this man was currently using that very same nose to smell an uncooked burger patty with what seemed like great delight. His eyes were closed as he gently breathed in and breathed out, a serene half smile on his face.
Police Captain Greg Smalls cleared his throat: "Excuse us sir..."
Dixie held out a finger to quickly cut the conversation short. He muttered to himself: "Yes... this is the one. Not appearing to be spoilt at all to the untrained nose. In fact, when the final product is presented; cooked and stuck between two buns with just a smidgen of oregano and basil for taste, the old fool would never be able to tell at all. But he’ll know tomorrow. He’ll definitely know tomorrow when he won't make it more than ten steps from his toilet." With a smirk Dixie threw the inspected patty on the griddle: "This will teach you not to paintball my sign again you old bastard."
Greg and Henry both had a quick glance at each other. Greg decided that maybe he should try again: "Mr Bannerman, if I could please have a moment of your time, we are..."
Dixie flipped the burger and took a quick sip from the coffee cup that was always full and always beside his griddle courtesy of Myra: "The police. I know. In fact I knew about ten minutes ago when you were loitering outside. The stench of donuts and dumbass was so overwhelming, how could I not know?"
Greg looked perplexed and Henry tried to contain himself as he had something of an anger management issue. Greg decided to break the uncomfortable silence: "Be that as it may Mr. Bannerman, can we please have a moment of your time?"
Dixie casually waved his hand: "You can have a moment Mr. Policeman, but only a small one and that is it. I have to get back to poisoning the populace with fatty foods and sugar laced sodas, the very thing which has now become my life's work. Not to mention I made it today’s mission to give that old bastard Dent the worst case of the runs he has ever experienced."
Henry was getting hot under the collar now; he turned around and made a move for the door:" C’mon sir, the Mayor's old buddy Gus was clearly wrong about this guy, he’s an idiot. Let’s get going."
As Henry touched the door handle, Dixie spoke up: "Pancakes with homemade syrup for breakfast, a slight unnerving rash just under your left bum cheek and no sex for over a year now. That is quite sad actually, you should have all of that looked at." Henry turned back towards Dixie again, his face flushed with anger:" What did you say?"
"Are you deaf as well? No comprende English? Read my lips copper, I'll speak slowly. You. Pancakes. Rash. No and Sex. Hell, you practically reek from it." Dixie replied before he drained the rest of his coffee in one quick motion. Greg quickly stepped in between the two men to keep Henry calm: "So, it seems Gus was right about you Mr. Bannerman, you have a very keen sense of smell."
Dixie waved away the compliment; he has heard it many times before: "Old Gus smelled like onions and beer at the best of times, depression and cheap hookers at the worst. If he sent you to me for help, you must be desperate. Sorry, not interested, that part of my life is long over. Goodbye."
Captain Smalls was not the sort to beg, so he turned and guided Henry by the shoulder: "Then I guess Gus was wrong, he also described you as a man of honour who would always endeavour to do the right thing. C’mon Henry, we’ll catch the Twin Killer ourselves without Mr. Bannerman’s help."
Dixie looked up with a startle and shot a glance at Myra. Before she could look away their eyes met for what seemed like an eternity. "Now, just hold on a second there chief. Tell me more of this Twin Killer business."
* * * * *
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