LABOR DAY 1955
AVONDALE ESTATES, GEORGIA
He heard about the opening of a new restaurant. One that would be dedicated to the People—both customers and employees. Certainly, the thought appealed to him. He was, after all, a Communist agent under the deepest cover. They’re always on the lookout for fellow travelers and such. Thus it was that a Polish ninja known only by his code name, Hunnan Express, was the first customer at the opening of the original Waffle House in a sleepy suburb of Atlanta, Georgia.
“I will have an All Star spshecial, onegaisuru.”
“Right away!”
As they returned to the grill, he took another sip of his coffee and walked towards the bathroom. It was while he was there that the second through tenth would-be customers entered this Waffle House of destiny. Those customers, they were pirates.
“Yargh.” “Yo ho ho ho.” “Ay’ll have a bottle of rum! And yer best hashbrowns!”
He heard the noise from the bathroom. In his haste, he skipped washing his hands.
In an instant, the pirate racket was cut off.
He stood there majestically for what may have been a second or may have been an hour. The eyes of all in the restaurant were on him and the daikatana at his waist. The pirates were utterly silent, until a fork slipped out of the captain’s hook. During the interval when the fork went from his maw to the table top, that was when Hunnan Express sprang into explosive action. Not a single breath had passed by as the ninja went into his attack. His daikatana was not three inches from the faces of the horror struck pirate, when it was suddenly deflected by a massive iron skittle. The skittle and the sword both flew out the window with shattering crash.
“Listen pal! You can leave here quietly right now, or you can fight us instead.”
The ninja merely composed himself into fighting stance. The pirates began sneaking out in a cowardly manner.
“So be it. You had a choice— and you chose us!”
The battle that ensued cannot be described by mere words. The ferocity of that incredible conflict is utterly ineffable, but in the end, the ninja was forced to retreat. His first dollar for framing the only direct proof his existence, but the damage done to the building serving as a clear enough pointer. Broken bottles of Heinz bled over the once gleaming floor. Sticky puddles of vanilla and cherry befouled the remains of the counter. But dedicated to the proposition of a restaurant whose doors never close, the clean-up effort began, and a pair of hungry customers were admitted.
It was decided then and there by the managing owners that House rules should be drawn up to prevent any future such incidents.