Going Shogun by Ernie Lindsey Page A

plans for the evening.  He says, “Doth appear we need to samurai the
coconut to get at the meat, friendlies.” 
    Annnnd, he’s back.

Chapter
8
    At this point, it’s 2AM and we’re
driving in circles, thinking, brainstorming, trying to decide what LX meant by
the rabbit hole .  We’re coming up with fluff, getting frustrated, and going
all Captain Testyboots on each other.  Bingo mentions she’s hungry so we go looking
for a greasy spoon to grab a snack, and thank God late night restaurants are
legal again.  The Board outlawed them in the ‘50s because eating late and
sleeping on it right after proved to have a direct correlation to the Eternal Obesity
Epidemic.  That, a thousand other reasons, and my favorite meal, cheeseburgers,
were the culprits.  The Board made it an immediate decade in prison for
restaurant owners if they were caught staying open past 9PM.
    “To preserve the health of the
bloodline,” is what they said back then.  It took about fifteen years for the
average fat content of an R11 male to erode to where nature intended.  Once
homeostasis was restored, The Board opened the Law up for reconsideration and
it was overturned by a vote of 4-3.  We’ll have to wait and see how long it
takes for the EOE to make a comeback, and Dorna ain’t helping a bit to prevent
its return with the cult-like popularity of Butter Tea Brownies. 
    I’m not quite familiar with where we
are, and somehow Forklift isn’t either.  Seems like an R10 block from the way
the streetlights bounce off of well-manicured brownstones and coiffed
landscaping.  Bingo looks up at a Level Marker when we cruise past and says,
“Oh, wait, Ron Paul Park is down that way about half a mile.  There’s a cool
place nearby that has super nummy noms.”
    I cock an eyebrow at her.  “Super nummy
noms?  Forklift is rubbing off on you.”
    He chuckles.  “Own the clone,
Name-o.  Own the clone.”
    She’s right.  A half-mile down we
pull up outside of a diner called... Diner .  What it lacks in creative
naming, it makes up for in nostalgia.  This silver bullet, this Hulked out soda
pop can, this aluminum hunk of tornado bait, is positively glowing with happy
energy. 
    Forklift parks, and I use that term
loosely, considering what he does is slide Machine in between two R11-1
minivans like a sheet of paper between the building blocks of what’s left of
the Great Pyramid of Zahi Hawas.  Both doors can only open about two inches
each, so we have to use the sun roof like an escape hatch.  Forklift appears to
levitate out given his agility.  Bingo climbs up after him and I happen to
catch a glimpse of her thong that matches all things purple on her person. 
    Yowsa.  Super nummy noms.
    Wait, stop it.  Fireball, Fireball,
Fireball.  But Bingo, man.  Her smell, her colors.  The way she moves.  She’s
lithe.  Lithe?  Is that the word I’m looking for?  Yes!  Now stop it. 
Fireball, Fireball, Fireball.  You want Fireball...don’t you?
    I shake off the momentary drooling
and attempt to climb out of Machine , distinctly aware that I’m like a
St. Bernard trying to jam its way through a cat door.
    ***
    Inside Diner , we’re pelted
with the almost palpable smells of cheeseburgers (yes!) and fries, malted
milkshakes and real java made from coffee beans grown right here in what’s left
of the States.  None of that fake-bean nonsense. 
    I hear Slaughterhouse Nine-to-Five
playing an ancient jive cover of an Elvis song through the jukebox in the
corner. 
    Waitresses in pink and white
uniforms buzz around the room with trays of delicious goodies.  It’s vintage
all right, and I’m a little surprised that Bingo would be into this Holiest of
Ascension Holies, this Mecca of Mindless Munchies.  I ask her what the deal is,
and she says, “Take a look at the peeps in here.  What level do you think they
are?”
    Forklift looks around, says, “Radar
recon sleuths an R10 to R9 hangtown.”
    “Nope,” she says,