fandomtownies | Luke's Diner, July 12 (Monday)

"What happened to all the frying pans?" was the pressing question of the day, once Lacey's kitchen staff had assembled and she got to confront them about the mysterious wholesale lack of a certain vital piece of kitchen equipment.

The cook scratched behind his ear and glanced away; the busboy and dishwasher shuffled their feet and mumbled something incomprehensible as they turned bright red.

Lacey put her hands on her hips, pursed her lips, and gave them a narrow-eyed look. "Oh, and now I suppose you're going to tell me some kind of . . . flying frying pan-eating monster crusading against the use of cooking oil showed up over the weekend and did away with them?"

She shouldn't have said that; it got her a hasty chorus of vague agreement.

"Well, I guess you're going to have to find some way to deal with egg orders this morning, aren't you? (The grill was fine for everything else, but Lacey was oddly particular about how the eggs got cooked. You couldn't make an omelet on the grill, for crying out loud.)

Today's Specials
Spinach, Mushroom, and Cheese Egg Mug
Beet, Rhubarb, and Orange Salad
Chicken Parmesan Burgers

Luke's is open, and oh, how timely that delivery of new ceramicware was.

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Lacey's probably still trying to get to the bottom of the Highly Localized Frying Pan Rapture here. Surely at least one of them got left behind?

Although if you time it right, you could save her from herself.

"Has it been quiet here today, too?" asked Angua, who should really know better, as she took her usual spot at the counter.

"For all the wrong reasons," griped Lacey in a departure from her usual cheer (although it was disturbingly perky for griping), shooting a glare through the service window into the kitchen, which continued to be notably lacking in the clang of frying pans against stove burners. "My frying pans all disappeared sometime over the weekend, and if any of the guys knows a thing they're not saying. How are you today, Sergeant?"

"Nothing as exciting as missing pans," Angua had to admit, "and that's usually our business. You have any other thoughts on what happened to them?"

"Oh, I don't know," Lacey said, resigned in a way only someone whose most recent experience dealing with the police in any official capacity had been with the Dog River PD could be. (No, really, you try getting them to do anything right, when the standard MO for guarding the annual Clavet Cup town curling trophy was keeping a stash of duplicates on hand because they always lost it while guarding it.) "I wouldn't be surprised if a frying-pan-eating creature really did come along and have a late-night snack over the weekend around here."

"If it did," said Angua, "it either just struck here, is very sneaky, or nobody on this island really cools. That sounds precisely like the thing to happen over the weekend that I'd have fifty documents in my box about, at least, and, thank gods, I didn't..."

"Oh, gosh." Excuse Lacey while her eyes widened in horror at the thought that she might've fallen down on the civic-duty job. "Do you think I ought to file a report? What if it happens somewhere else?"

. . . what if they tried to go after the Cafe Fina staff?

That would be horrible.

It would be horrible; Angua didn't even want to think about all those dishes and cutlery singing in the same space she had to work.

She grinned faintly. "I'd maybe give it a few days. It'll have to be at least 48 hours before you can file a missing cookwares report."

Was she serious? Was she making it up? Nobody knew.

". . . is there specific paperwork for a missing cookwares report?"

Of course Lacey had to ask. Translation: of course Lacey had to set herself up for that one.

"I mean, does that mean I get to fill out a space on the form that says last seen: stacked in the dishrack or something like that?" She let out what was not quite the elegant-if-slightly-flighty titter she thought it was, and was in fact much more like a dorky giggleshort. "Aw, gosh. I crack myself up."

That laugh was, to be honest, a little frightening.

"I wouldn't be surprised. It'll be my task for the rest of my shift, to find out. But there's an amazing amount of paperwork in that station. It might be my project for the week."

It should be, to anyone in their right mind. And a good chunk of those who weren't, too.

"You've got me wondering if you've got forms for everything, now," Lacey admitted. "That's a lot of everything given Fandom."

"And," said Angua, "if we haven't got it, we'll get it. Ralph is surprisingly resourceful."

Even when you really didn't want him to be.

Sure, leave Lacey wondering if there was some way she could file a report on hostile treatment by the foodstuffs, now.

She fiddled with the cash register key for a moment. "Boy, you don't lead uninteresting lives over there at the station, do you?"

"Actually?" Angua admitted. "I'm pretty bored more often than not. A lot of strange stuff happens here, but a lot of strange stuff happened in Ankh-Morpork, too, and they at least had higher numbers..."

"The last place I lived, a roadside corn stand burning down was the most excitement the place got in months," Lacey told her as if it was some sort of consolation. "That's weird, I thought with as many insane things as happen on this island you'd be spending less time drumming your fingers, or throwing darts at bulletin boards, or sticking pencils in the ceiling, or napping, or . . ."

Stop talking, Lacey.

And Angua was absolutely the person to just let her go on. And on. And on.

There might even be some good ideas in there.

"If I were the sort of person to be more inclined that way," she offered, "I'd perhaps make a chart, to just show once and for all how it really comes in waves. Waves with considerable crests."

It would be like panning for gold!

"Oh, can you not?" Lacey grimaced, one hand going instinctively to her stomach. "Just thinking about it makes me seasick."

Lacey wasn't responsible for the contribution from FAILblog (http://failblog.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/7310cc04-d6ce-4916-abc8-6d42f63c190a.jpg) that's on the board today, but she's glad neither of her diners is likely to top this.

You know whose fault this is?

justwantsquiet's fault, that's whose. But I'll let her get away with it because it means I'm not gonna starve until lunchtime. *noms happily on egg mug*

Luke's Diner, July 12 (Monday)

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