Congratulations on Buying a Bagel Sandwich!

On to way to the address you found in that woman’s mouth your tummy will get all arumble and you’ll decide to stop in at this Korean bagel place that you head to every Tuesday and Saturday or whenever you’re hung over in the neighborhood.

When you enter the store Lee, the proprietor, will let out a sigh and shout something at his wife in Korean. She’ll laugh and head into the back while you order a Chicken Teriyaki bagel. As you wait by the counter she’ll emerge with a mop and stare at you wordlessly. Waiting for your bagel for what seems like an eternity. When it’s ready the proprietor will wave you over to him and smile.

“You bring Triad today?” he’ll ask, quite racistly.

You’ll look at him, baffled.

“They were no trouble last night.” He’ll say the l in last like an r and hand you your bagel with a wink, refusing your money when you try to pay. As you begin to leave a pair of men in suits will rush into the deli and the storekeep’s wife will tackle you to the ground. Gunfire will pepper the wall behind where you once stood the world will go red in your mind, spinning with the force of that surprisingly strong Korean woman’s blow.

You’ll be dimly aware of the shopkeeper emerging from behind the counter with a shotgun and pumping round after round into the now oh so clearly anachronistically suited men.

You won’t have time to watch them wither under his fire. His wife will have already dragged you out the back door and into the cruel, cruel sunlight, where she’ll kiss you on the cheek.

“Go with massage,” she’ll say.

You’ll assume that she’s directing you to a massage parlor, but then you’ll realize that she means message, not massage. You’ll double check the note and start off towards you destination again, bagel in hand, moving as fast as you can, which is around limping speed after having the wind knocked out of you by a fifty-five year old Asian woman.

Congratulations on Buying a Bagel Sandwich!