Jason drummed his fingers on the table while he counted the seconds his girlfriend had been in the bathroom. There was no rush, through- A man like Jason has all the time in the world. He spent the time sipping his water and scanning the almost-busy restaurant. Behind him and to his right was a young couple, about the same age as Jason was, holding hands across the small table and speaking quietly with each other. Closer to him, but still to his right, was a pair of fat parents trying to yell at their fat children through closed teeth.
But across the room was the most fascinating couple, Jason thought. An elderly couple sat there, smiling at each other and silently enjoying each other's companionship. This made Jason happy. One day, thought Jason, I can put this tainted life behind me and just enjoy the subtle love that comes with age.
Five hundred seconds, and his girlfriend was still missing. But Jason barely paid attention to the benchmark because his attention was stolen by the newcomer to his tableaux. It was a waiter, tall, lanky, greasy ponytail showing off a greasy face. In that moment, Jason knew everything he needed to know about this man. He was a loser, a small fry, a man destined for compromise and the lower rungs of the social ladder.
And then his new character ruined everything. He was serving the elderly couple and dropped a small container of horseradish. It seemed suspended in air as Jason's eyes followed its decent. When it his the ground, it exploded. Green sauce flew across the room like jade shrapnel. The couple was covered, and pieces of sauce landed as far as Jason's table, peppering the area like a good grenade. There was a glob of the stuff on his girlfriend's seat, and had she returned from the restroom, her night would have been ruined. Jason noticed this. Jason became upset.
No one appeared to be interested in cleaning up the mess, so Jason calmly wiped down his table, and waited. His girlfriend returned soon after and they ate their meal as though nothing had happened. Jason had decided that telling his girlfriend would only upset her, for she knew what Jason Frisbie was capable of. No. They ate as normal people ate, and after they had laid down their tip, Jason excused him. The bathroom, he said. But it was into the kitchen he went. He found the waiter without too much difficulty, and in one swift motion Jason tore several strands of oily hair from his unsuspecting head. That was all. No words, not extra actions. Just the hair, and then he left.
At home, Jason unearthed a dusty box, made with what looked like dried animal skin. He hadn't opened the box often. He had won it from David Bowie, years ago, in a hopscotch contest. Inside the box were bottles of glowing liquid, a small book, and a doll. Jason didn't need the book, and instead reached straight for the doll. He tied the hair strands around the doll's neck, then used a small paintbrush to spread a few drops of an orange potion on the doll's torso and head. The whole act didn't take long, even though Frisbie moved with caution and the patience of a man used to rituals.
The dolls stays on his coffee table now, dressed in unassuming clothes and never resisting when Jason decides to release some anger. A pull here, a pinch there. Sometimes the punishments become more excited or exotic, but the doll has never lost its potency.
