"THE LINE CROSSER"

 TITLE: "THE LINE CROSSER"

FADE IN:

INT. DINER KITCHEN - MORNING

A greasy, chaotic kitchen. COOKS shout over the sizzle of bacon. DING! The order window fills up with tickets.

FRANK, the head cook—grumpy, built like a linebacker, covered in sweat—slams a plate onto the counter.

FRANK Order up! Runny snooty eggs for table six!

At the window, TODD, the nerdy, underpaid WAITER, grabs the plate. He hesitates, looking at the barely cooked eggs wobbling like Jell-O.

TODD Uh... you sure this is... edible?

FRANK (as he lights a cigarette) Does it look like I give a f—

Before he can finish, a CUSTOMER—a balding, entitled middle-aged man in a polo shirt—BARGES INTO THE KITCHEN.

CUSTOMER Oh, hell no! What in the slimy f— is this?!

The kitchen comes to a DEAD STOP. Cooks stare, a dishwasher turns off the sprayer, even a RAT scurries out to watch the drama unfold.

FRANK The f— are you doing back here?!

CUSTOMER You call these eggs?! They look like a damn science experiment! I ordered over medium, not "over still cluckin'!"

TODD (whispering) Oh, boy.

Frank flicks his cigarette into the sink, leans in dangerously close.

FRANK Look, you little spatula-lickin' bastard, you ever walk on my line again, I'm gonna deep-fry your sneakers and serve 'em as a lunch special!

CUSTOMER Oh yeah? Well, maybe if you cooked with some goddamn pride, I wouldn’t have to march my ass back here like Gordon Ramsay on a warpath!

A LINE COOK named RICO, a skinny dude with tattoos and a permanent smirk, leans in.

RICO Yo, if you’re Gordon Ramsay, then I’m fucking Oprah. Get off the line, dude!

CUSTOMER I AM THE CUSTOMER! I PAY YOUR SALARY!

FRANK (snaps) THE HELL YOU DO! Minimum wage and rage issues pay my salary!

Todd tries to mediate, holding up his hands.

TODD Okay, let's just calm—

CUSTOMER (to Todd) SHUT IT, NAPKINS!

TODD …Cool, cool. Love that.

Frank yanks the plate of eggs from the counter, launches it at the wall like a frisbee. It SLAPS and SLIDES DOWN in slow motion.

FRANK Fine! You want eggs? I’ll make you eggs so perfect, the f—ing chicken will be jealous!

The customer crosses his arms, smirking.

CUSTOMER That’s what I thought.

Frank CRACKS an egg so hard, the yolk shoots into Rico’s hair.

RICO Yo, what the fuck, man!

TODD Uh, sir, maybe wait in the dining area?

CUSTOMER No way! I’m staying right here, make sure this Neanderthal doesn’t spit in my food!

Frank stops, his eyes twinkle with evil delight.

FRANK Ohhh, I see. You’re one of THOSE. Buddy, let me tell you something…

He leans in even closer, voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

FRANK (CONT’D) If I wanted to spit in your food, I’d have done it the moment you walked in and asked for "extra ketchup on your pancakes."

CUSTOMER You—YOU MONSTER!

Rico slides in next to the customer, nodding sagely.

RICO Shoulda just sent 'em back, my guy.

The customer fumes, throws his arms up, and STORMS OUT. A moment of silence, then—

TODD Soooo... should I go charge him for the eggs?

Frank wipes his hands, lights another cigarette.

FRANK Nah. Let’s comp it. Asshole tax.

The kitchen ERUPTS in laughter.

FADE OUT.

THE END.

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