The Diner of '69

Chapter 1

"Dispatcher to Warren, over."

"This is Warren, how do you read Lucy?"

"Just seeing when you were taking off of your shift Sheriff, over."

"Right now, over."

"10-4. Enjoy your day. Over and out"

It was a bleak September morning, and dense fog settled over the roads making it nearly impossible to see the little lines marking the sides of the roads. Warren Jones was in his mid 30's and was generally a handsome man if he ever got rid of the shadows under his eyes. Warren had no wife to speak of and really no friends and family, mainly he woke up at 9p.m. patrolled the streets or just coasted along the highway until 8, called in when his shift was over, headed to the diner, and then went home to watch a little tv and slept until it was time for him to get ready for his shift again. He typically took to patrolling at night because all of the deputies had families.

Warren sat in the muggy confines of his cop car going several miles over the limit. What point is there of being a cop if you can't take a few perks with it? He thought to himself. He had just finished another graveyard shift and his stomach growled in protest. Heading off the deserted highway he made his way to Route 66. There was a diner that Warren loved going to called The Red Cactus, he was there almost every day and the owners didn't mind him being there just as long as he bought something.

Pulling off Route 66 he turns into the diner parking lot. As usual he was the only car there in the sandy parking lot. I'm probably the livelihood of their business he thought dejectedly. Flipping off the radio and taking the keys out of his car he opened the door into the thick morning. Slamming the car door closed he locked it with an audible click. He didn't notice the dark rust colored substance scattered over the sand at the edge of the parking lot, but then again he never looked at the ground anyway. Something about showing he wasn't meek. He walked up to the front doors of the diner, grasping the cool handle. In the distance a shriek pierced the still morning air making him pause and look around. Must be a bird or something, he thought turning back around as his stomach reminds him once again why he's here.

He stepped inside with the tinkle of the bell over the door announcing him. There was nobody else inside. Martha poked her head through the kitchen door and smiled. "Hey Warren. Just got off your shift?" She asked. Martha Thatcher was a middle aged woman Warren assumed to be in her mid to early 40's. She had graying hair and a small build. Her eyes always held a hint of wonder that Warren brushed off though it slightly unnerved him a bit when she looked him up and down like he was bacon in a butchers shop.

"Yeah. 'Nother night full of the ever eventful nothing." He replied with a yawn.

"Take a seat. I'll be right out. Gotta clean my hands off." She held up her hands, a knife resting easily in one of them. They were covered in blood. Odd, he thought, nothing she ever served him had that much blood unless she just killed an animal. Warren sat down at the counter facing the kitchen. He was a little nervous to have his back to the outer door but he was also a little nervous to have his back to the kitchen. Martha had an awful big knife after all. He didn't believe Martha would do anything to him but after years of being a cop, he couldn't be too careful. He supposed she was just cutting up some fresh meat to make some of that famous stew that everyone talks about..

Martha came back a few minutes later carrying a cup of hot coffee, setting it down in front of Warren with a smile.

"Here you go. You want the usual?" She asked, smiling at him.

"You know me so well." See she wasn't so bad, I need to stop being so uptight he thought ruefully.

"It'll be out in a jiffy."