This is a continuation of Strange Trio Redux.
The rain came down in the streets like an ALS ice bucket challenge from the heavens. Miss Hill shivered under the black cape.
“I hope this place isn’t very far!” she yelled. Ms. White didn’t seem to hear.
It wasn’t. After only a block of the cold water treatment, Ms. White stopped in front of a brick wall. “We’re here,” she declared.
Miss Hill looked around in consternation. “What? There is nothing here!”
“C’mon, Miss Hill.” She pulled her by the elbow. “Stand next to me.” The rain drummed on the hood of the cloak, making Ms. White’s voice sound spooky.
Miss Hill thought she’d done it all now. She was standing on the same square of concrete in front of an ordinary, yet very wet, brick wall. With an old woman that was bat loops crazy. In a freezing cold torrential downpour.
And then, three things seemed to happen at the same time, though on later reflection, they happened this way. A solid black square flashed out of the side of the brick wall over their heads and they were out of the rain. Four clear walls shot up from around the concrete slab and connected to the black roof above them. And, she and Ms. White stood, sodden, in a small diner next to a little chalk board that read, “Please wait to be seated.”
Their cloaks ran rainwater onto the green tile floor. Miss Hill’s shoes squished in the puddle as she took her cloak off and handed it to Ms. White, who took it and hung it with her own on a wooden peg on the wall. There was no door behind her, she realized as she turned.
“How did we … where are we?” she asked Ms. White.
A shrill voice answered from the small chalk board. “Welcome to Bromhilde’s!”
She jumped and held her own heart before it could backflip out of her chest into the puddle. “Who…?” There was no one there. But then she realized the jackalope on the wooden box was starring at her. Smiling. It said, “Two, then?”
Ms. White nonchalantly said, “Yes. Booth for two please.”
They followed the jackalope to a booth further into the room, Miss Hill trying hard not to trip on her own jaw.
The jackalope was rather talkative as there were few patrons. The storm had kept them away, it surmised. Yet, oddly, Miss Hill no longer heard the storm at all. She wondered where on Earth this diner, Bromhilde’s, was and how they had gotten here or if she was hallucinating. Could that laced drink from that inane frat party years ago really do this? Then, she realized what a talking jackalope must mean. She resolved right then that she was going to hunt down Mickey Herbmaster, whatever rock he was living under now, and kill him.
The jackalope tittered on. “… really an actor you know. Ah, here we are ladies.” He waved a paw. “Chazgoyle will be your server.” It loped away.
Miss Hill tried to take it in. The room was well lit and had an off-beat odds-and-sods sort of thrown together decor. Three and four legged chairs. Wood. Metal. Plastic. Tables of random shapes and sizes with and without mismatched tablecloths.
Ms. White asked, “Would you like something to drink, dear?”
“What?” She turned and looked Ms. White. “Oh, yes. A Scotch. Make it a double. I need it.”
Ms. White winked. Then smiled.