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When the waitress came I told her I would have the double Crayola burger with extra magenta. She said okay and scurried behind the counter to place my order. While she was gone and the crayons were simmering I decided I wanted to be a giraffe. So I became a giraffe. I had a long black tongue with little spikes at the end and I scuttled behind the counter to bite the waitress. She screamed. Then she decided she didn't want to be a waitress anymore; she wanted to be a ballerina hippo. So she became a ballerina hippo. She did pirouettes between the aisles, saying, I'm a ballerina hippo, I'm a ballerina hippo. I used my spiked tongue to turn more patrons. Some became mailboxes, others became clouds. There was only one unchanged person in the cafe. The cook was so irritated at having to take and prepare orders, he called the local animal control and zoo keeper and the waitress and I decided we weren't so keen on being giraffes or hippos anymore. We decided, PDQ, to be plain ole humans again and I went back to my table and she donned her waitress frock and we both pretended like nothing had happened. The cook was still pissed. He couldn't change into anything at all.

The Millennium Falcon was gassed up and ready to go. The cook got on board, took the controls. He had a vendetta against the waitress and me. He sent burly men to wiretap our phones. He listened in on our conversations. He fitted the Millennium Falcon with nuclear warheads and a bomb-bay door. When next he heard us speak the warheads would drop. Since we were home when the burly men tiptoed in to install the wiretaps, we knew all about them. We didn't speak on the telephone. Instead I went to the cafe and ordered a double Crayola burger without yellow and the waitress brought it to me without a word. We spoke with our eyes. They said things words couldn't. The cook watched us warily. He thought we were planning something. We were.

The Millennium Falcon grew rusty due to inactivity. The cook never pulled it into a garage. It sat outside. Rain pelted it; snow, sleet, ice. Even the melting sun. The Millennium Falcon was tired of being a spacecraft. It wanted to be a real falcon. It turned into a real falcon and flew away, taking the nuclear warheads with it. The cook was pissed.

While I was having lunch one day, the falcon flew into the parking lot of the cafe. It walked in through the doors. It wanted to talk to the cook. Look, it said, I'm not so keen on this kind of freedom. Being able to fly wherever I want to, it's not my bag. I have trouble deciding. It was much easier when you told me where to go. I didn't have to think. I liked it better that way. Would you take me back?

The cook said he would and then he eyed the waitress and me with an evil gleam. He had a plan.

The other patrons were tired of the cook's behavior. Since he began the vendetta his cooking was shabby. You burned my toast, one of them said. You burned my eggs, cried another. The cook did not care. He was more interested in killing. To his credit, the patrons continued to patronize. We'll leave, some of them said. Go then, said the cook. The patrons did not leave. They liked where the cafe was. If not the food.

The cafe was tired of all of them. The bickering. The people who were different kinds of animals. The spacecraft that became a bird. It was all screwy to the cafe. Deep in its rafters the cafe had a plan. While it was closed for the night the cafe found a magic marker tucked below the counter and brown paper towels fastened inside its bathroom. The cafe wrote a note on the paper towels. Closed, the message read.

The cook was astonished. The spacecraft was astonished. The waitress and I were astonished. All the patrons were astonished. We stood in front of the cafe staring at the message written on the windows. There was a huge padlock on the door. It was held in place with a heavy chain. None of us could get inside to daydream.

With a newfound sense of camaraderie we began to look around for a new cafe. 

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