Scrapple by Warren Benedetto

“I’ll have the scrapple,” I said. The waitress glanced at the fist-sized bruise on my arm, then at Mike. I nodded. She jotted on her pad. “Coffee.” Mike thrust the menu at the waitress. “Black.” The waitress disappeared into the kitchen. Through the swinging doors, I saw her hand my order to the cook. He read it, then looked out at me. Eye contact. A small nod. “What’s even in scrapple?” Mike sneered. “Pork bits,” I explained. “Lips, nips, and assholes.” The cook emerged from the kitchen. He approached Mike from behind, meat cleaver in hand. “Mostly assholes,” I added.