The Greg Kihn Band - Jeopardy
624 1st Ave, Cedar Rapids, IA
On any given Thursday, Greg Kensington and Mickey Thompson eat out in the evening. Though possessing different tastes, the two men have come to tolerate, if not appreciate the art of culinary compromise. Over the years, Greg has become desensitized to Mickey's penchant for chicken of all kinds, be it fried, grilled, baked, or broasted. Truth be told, Greg has grown numb to a good number of Mickey's less tantalizing habits, criticism being one of them. From time to time, Greg is too nice, too brusque, too fat, too fit, too stubbly, too smooth, too anything, too everything. For what it's worth, Mickey is too much of an asshole in more ways than one, in as many years. He has pretty big ears, too, but that goes without saying.
On this particular Thursday, the two of them have elected to dine at the local Taco Bell, mostly because it's convenient, but also because Mickey loathes the decor and, more importantly, routinely bemoans the quality of its fowl-based products. Greg Kensington has a bone to pick, you see, albeit slowly, as he fully intends to savor the present opportunity to make a scene befitting the crime, for his boyfriend of three years has been cheating on him for approximately three months, and if there's one thing Mickey Thompson deserves, it's three months of discomfort wrapped up and blown out inside a Taco Bell.
In his thirty-seven years on this earth, Greg has at times been labeled a sadist, which makes sense inasmuch that he is one to satisfy his cravings at the expense of whomever shares his bed but on the flip side, he is nothing if not loyal to his companions. Having never cheated on a partner, Greg Kensington considers betrayal a far more egregious error than any form of bondage imaginable. If Mickey were so dissatisfied, Greg reasons, he could have left some time ago. He could have done Greg, hell, himself a solid and simply broke off what has become a longstanding romance. Instead, they find themselves at the shittiest Taco Bell in town, staring cooly at one another between bites of Soft Taco Supremes and Cheesy Gordita Crunches.
After Mickey complains about the quality of chicken in his Gordias for the second time this evening, Greg readily acknowledges his partner's preference for meat with a bone. A silence of sorts ensues, broken up by chewing, swallowing, and sauce packets tossed aside. Seated in the booth behind Mickey is a family of four, the husband and wife each attempting to assuage the unfounded fears of a finicky eater while a teenage girl beside the wife practically shouts what sounds like Justin Bieber lyrics toward some unfortunate soul on the receiving end of her cell phone call. Behind Greg, an older, crankier female version of Mickey complains that her crunchy taco is, doggone it, simply too crunchy, and it is here and now that he sees fit to make a scene; and a spectacle Greg Kensington shall become, though not in the manner envisioned.
Gently unwrapping his second Soft Taco Supreme, Greg questions what it's like to suck Corey Schneider's dick, quite loudly in fact, to which Mickey's mouth drops wide open. A gasp from the crotchety old lady signifies that someone besides the two of them is privy to the thinly veiled accusation lain out for all ears to discern, and Greg wouldn't have it any other way. The glimmer in his boyfriend's eyes, at once diminished yet incredulous, prompts him to take a bite from his taco - a taste of victory, so to speak, or the zest of humiliation inflicted. Either way, he has won.
Unfortunately, it is neither.
The look on Mickey's face has transformed from one shade of horror to another, muddied by confusion and perhaps concern. For a moment, Greg is unaware of what has transpired on anything but a searingly primordial, something hurts! level. Reflexively, he jerks the taco away from his lips and, attempting to speak, quickly realizes that a profusion of blood contorts all language. Mickey asks him what the shit just happened but Greg needs a second or two to wrap his brain around the perplexity gushing forth. He drops the taco, grabs a napkin and presses it to his lips. Between distorted profanity and a tongue partially removed, Greg Kensington tries explaining to his boyfriend that the goddamn taco just took a bite out of him yet nothing seems to come out properly. Scrambling out from the booth, he stumbles toward the island of condiments, chin, napkin, and the collar of his striped Billy Reid polo stained red, dripping ichor along the way. The finicky eater, having caught sight of the blood, has begun to cry while Mickey, panicking, tells the kid to shut the fuck up as the teenage girl, meanwhile, captures the calamitous moment with her cell phone camera. The cranky lady, up and at Greg's side in an effort to assist with the napkins being stuffed into his mouth, opines that, doggone it, there's a lot of blood. Mickey tells her to shut the fuck up, as well. Not that it makes a lick of difference, but she does just that because at the rate poor Greg is bleeding out, there isn't much more to be said.
This is how, when and where the end emerged: Ragnarök protracted and dinners disturbed.
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