Blake and Roger had decided on Chinese for lunch.
The endless clanging of the stacking of dishes in the back room permeated the atmosphere seemingly as pungently as did the second-hand cloud slowly wafting over from the solitary old man's third cigarette two tables away. The afternoon sun beamed in through the dis-shevelled, dust-encrusted slats of the venetian blinds. Watching the blades of sunlight slice through the smoke, Blake thought to himself how eerily similar this was to a Great White concert which he could vaguely remember as he finished his Yu-Hsiang Beef and Chow Mein.
Meanwhile, failing to recognize his own disruptiveness to anyone else in the restaurant, Roger took yet another long, loud, ragged sip of his black pekoe as he read the fortune he had just extracted from his cookie.
"Here's my fortune," he said to Blake, who was sitting blank-stared, still pondering the natural laser show. "It says,
'Many receive advice; only the wise profit from it.'
I'm sorry, but I just don't see how that's gonna help anybody."
Awaking from his catatonia, Blake said, "Yeah, heard that. What's mine say?"
Roger responded, reading the other fortune, "Okay… oh, this is a good one. It's totally true…
'People find it difficult to resist your persuasive manner.' "
Blake then flatly replied, "Anyone who believes that is just a complete idiot, that's all."
Thirty seconds of smoke-filled silence passed.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," said Roger. "Hey, these things are dumb. Let's get outta here."
Sliding out of the diamond-tuck upholstered red leatherette booth, and putting on his jacket, Blake winked at the immaculately carved dragon on the wall, then picked up and pocketed the tip on his way out.