On His Own: A Sing Fanfiction

Johnny Meets Dylan

Johnny stepped into the joint his father had mentioned and stopped dead in the doorway. "Hello. Welcome to Screwball Cafe," came a voice from the back. Nobody was in the cafe at all. Except for an old turtle, but he seemed intent on leaving, constantly making violent eye gestures toward the door, making Johnny think the man might have a vendetta against him.
Johnny quickly left the dagger gaze of the turtle and walked in the direction of the source of the voice, which led him to a bar with barrel seats lined in front. "Hi, I'm looking for Dylan?"
A rat in a pipefitter's cap hopped up to the counter, wiping his hands on a towel. He wore a bit of a sourpuss face. "Yeah? I'm him."
Johnny, despite being in the presence of a man who's height matched the distance between his jawline and ear, began to stumble over his words. "Uh, my name's Johnny Clayton. My father sent me. Um, B-Big Daddy, who owns th-the-"
"Marcus? What're you, his cousin? How many guys does he have lyin' around this city, what's he want?" The rat's Brooklyn accent was prominent, which only intimidated Johnny more. "Uh, I s-said I was his son.. But he said you were a good cook and I-I wanna learn."
The rat suddenly cocked his head back. Johnny felt a chill crawl up his spine and stood up straight. Dylan looked away from Johnny, then stepped forward a bit. "The heir to the prestigious Rabbit Tree Gang wants to get a cooking lesson from me? What's the catch?" Johnny started and coughed, but managed to compose himself. "There is no catch, my family is in jail and I am hopeless when it comes to making food." He sat down to better level himself with the miniscule proprietor. "My father said you were a natural chef, and I'd be honored to have you for an instructor."
The rat's mouth slowly cracked into a smile. "Well, aren't you just a butt-kisser." Johnny felt the murkiness of that day rise in his chest again before his father's friend held out a paw. "Dylan Screwball. Call me Dylan." Johnny drew in a breath, trying to look professional. "Really?" His voice cracked. "I mean, thank you, sir," he stated, shaking Dylan's hand with just his finger and thumb.
"Alright, what'cha want for dinner tonight?"
"What?"
"It's getting dark out, and since you apparently don't know how to sustain yourself correctly, I thought I'd make something for you." Johnny looked behind him, and found that the rat was right.
Outside the windowed front wall of the cafe, street lights had begun to flicker on, and the porch light of his father's garage glowed warmly in the dusk. Johnny turned back. "Can you make curry?"
"If I've got the stuff for it." Dylan ran away, jumping hands over heels into an open spice cabinet while Johnny got a proper look at the establishment and its manager. The Screwball Cafe was lit with an old yellow light, cast on a wood floor and brick walls. A typical cafe, save for the bar. It started at a door at the far left corner of the cafe, curving out into a straight line separating Dylan's work area and the rest of the cafe. It then curved again, parallel to Johnny, and continued straight out near the door. Dylan himself, though, was a different story. Plain socks on his feet, Jeans on his legs, a pinstriped buttoned shirt with a simple tee underneath over his chest, and the aforementioned pipefitter's cap on his head. Classy guy, Johnny thought. In a sort of not-classy way.
"'Scuse me."
Johnny was shaken from thought by an impatient Dylan. "You're in luck." He held out a recipe card, which Johnny took. "This is adults' curry. You under 18?" Johnny stared quizzically at the card. "No, but what makes it not for kids?" the gorilla asked, handing the recipe back over.
"The spice. It killed my nephew," mused the rat. Johnny was taken aback. "I'm sorry, Mr. Screwball."
"Dylan. And yeah, I was joking. You'll see a lot of that from me. But he did go to the hospital."
"Wow..."
"So you better not be sensitive to spice. When you say curry, I'm gonna give you CURRY."