Idle chatter. Teeth shining behind false masks of pleasantries. The dim insanity held barely checked behind their eyes. Their every twitch screaming. Screaming for release. Screaming for a cease to this mundane existence, plagued with the disrespect and wasteful edicts of the new Kings. 327 she calls. It is my number. I take my Whopper and leave. The streets are my table. The sins of man are my condiments. Criminals are my napkin. She forgot pickles.