“Them shrimp burritos, man, they sure as hell just melt in your mouth.” The Gringo stood in the hallway, peering into the kitchen. The chef, a whistling muscleman, plopped a spoonful of guacamole into a stuffed taco. He then meandered over to the deep fryer, yanking out the plantains.
“You must have had the shrimp burritos before, haven’t you?” The Gringo continued. The chef nodded then pushed passed his chatty voyeur. “Ah to Follow the Chef,” sang the Gringo. Had the bathroom door stayed shut, he would have continued on with the song. A hunchbacked woman stumbled past the Gringo, her breath reeking of fecal matter. Once inside the tiled bathroom, rose fragrance permeated the air.
There upon the warm porcelain seat, the Gringo closed his eyes, humming the tune “Ah to Follow The Chef.” Minutes later, nothing had found its way out of his rectum. He was awoken by a pounding on the door. The Gringo leapt up, his genitals flailing about, yanked the door open. There stood the chef. The two uttered their apologizes with cheeks aflame in embarrassment.