It was a hell of a day to pick.
That's all Wally could think, as the former Denny’s chef stood on the bar with dynamite strapped to his chest as bits of former other-cooks mixed with pancakes and strawberries cascaded all around him like a particularly disturbed interpretation of a fairly dramatic moment in an opera with lots and lots of fat ladies vying for the top spot.
The ambitiously dynamited fellow, in typical terroristic fashion, was also currently screaming his head off about some viewpoint of which he no doubt felt quite strongly about, and emphatically explaining how he'd enjoy it very much if everyone were a lot closer to the ground.
It was a hell of a day, to pick.
Here Wally was, meeting the girl of his dreams, which really, would juuust balance out the day's crap-scale, when one considered the day he’d had, plus the previous year or twenty, and this dope had to decide that today, of all days, was the day to start blowing things up.
"Fred?" Steve squeaked, peeking his head out from the decidedly unprotectively-cheap table of which he'd dove behind moments before in a moderately successful effort to avoid chef/strawberry-shrapnel.
"...UCKING KINGDOME COME! YOU UNDERSTAND ME!? I'LL BLOW... Steve?"
One of the teenagers tittered, then tittered again thinking about the word titter.
"God man, it IS you!" Steve yelped, coming out from his hiding place and walking towards him, "What've you been up to Fred!? I haven't seen you since... oh yuck, I just stepped in some... God I hope that's strawberries..."
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