"We serve everything," she replied firmly—and turned away, heading back into the kitchen.
By doing that, she successfully escaped an army of questions I had specially trained for her. I bit my lower lip in indignation.
Then, without thinking, I snatched the menu from Mah's hands and took a look.
My eyes widened in shock.
A very rare occurrence, I thought. Apart from the word "EVERYTHING", aligned at the absolute center against an absolute green background, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I stared at Mah without raising my head.
"Is this what you have been looking at the whole time?"
He smiled and shifted in his seat.
"Indeed."
"Did you expect that?" the bearded kid suddenly asked.
I wasn't entirely sure which incident he was referring to. Was it the poisoned couple, the waitress claiming to serve everything, or Mah spending an absurd amount of time studying an almost blank menu? The uncertainty, however, did not diminish the meaning of his question.
"Nothing is unexpected. To me," I hissed through gritted teeth.
"Bloody liar! You're going to burn in hell. Your teeth included."
At that moment, the elder security guard entered. All eyes fell upon him. He said nothing; his mood had visibly darkened.
None of us knew for certain what had happened after the guards took the dying couple away. The dark doors turned out to be our limit.
Surprisingly—and annoyingly—the dark tinted doors and windows prevented even those inside from seeing through them.
An ambulance had been called. They were taken to a hospital. We could only guess.
With his hands clasped behind his back, the guard walked toward the hoodie man.
"Do you mind taking off your hood?" he asked politely. "You're giving a bad impression."
"I do mind taking off my hood," the hoodie man replied, lifting his head slightly. "As for impressions—that is not my problem at all. It is them who fabricate negativity. I am wearing clothes of my choice, just as they are wearing clothes of theirs. How they interpret my clothing reflects their mindsets, not mine. If you truly want a comfortable atmosphere for everyone, you should ask them to change their mindsets."
"I get you, sir, I really do," the guard interjected at last. "But… look. Their crippled mindset isn't entirely their fault. Certain kinds of clothing are common among criminals and are often used in criminal activity. Naturally, people develop negative associations."
"Forsake!" The hoodie man exploded. He slammed his fist on the table. The old guard jumped in fright. Most diners snapped their heads toward the scene.
I didn't look. I had followed the conversation from the beginning, and I liked it.
"Let us face it," the hoodie man continued. "Are such clothes made for criminal purposes?"
Before the guard could respond, the hoodie man answered himself.
"No."
"But—"
"Let us face another fact," the hoodie man cut him off. "The amount of such clothing used in criminal activities is pitifully small compared to everyday usage. It is profoundly unfair to attach negativity to all such clothing because of a minority. Now get lost and let me dine in peace. I promise I will leave your damned restaurant as soon as I finish my meal."
The guard nodded and silently left the room.
"Do not look at me!" the hoodie man barked.
Everyone turned away.
I had a very bad hunch about this guy. Not because of his appearance or clothing—but because of his actions. He had ordered exactly twenty-four chips and had eaten only one over the last twenty minutes.