In this story it is a lovely month of autumn; cool and crisp, as the fictitious Mr. Thompson would describe it. Not unlike Mr. Thompson, the entire Thompson family is made up. On some imaginary night Mr. and Mrs. Thompson along with their fake children Mary and John happen upon a new restaurant and stop in for a bite to eat. Idealistic as they may seem, a flawed family maintains a faint illusion of realism, and well, I feel we've moved far beyond that into something new and fantastic.

The air held a strange quality of stillness and preservation - the wind cooling life and thus effectively slowing it - the grass mystical with refracted wonder and beauty. Of course it is ultimately indescribable and those not present at its inception will forever be denied its pleasure. Mr. Thompson looked up at the sky in a terrible cliché, and felt a haunting chill. For a moment, and only that, he experienced a reality. The sky was filled with acrylic clouds and covered in tissue paper filled with holes. The sun, shaded now by the paper, shone through in tiny specks. The night burned intensely. Despite its homemade charm, it was and remains very real. I look at it on intermittent nights when I find myself outside. It is something of great wonderment, and I have found terrific ease in standing and tilting my chin up towards it and god.

I soon disappeared and the restaurant and the Smiths and the street which didn't exist before all swept outward in a furious dissolve. It was dinnertime, whatever that was, and the Smiths entered the establishment. They were greeted by an enthusiastic hostess named Deborah, (on a whim, by me), and introduced to a less cheerful server who was not named Deborah. No pleasantries were exchanged and the Smiths were led to their table. There was little time to look around before yet another server presented himself to hand out menus. Each was a rectangular sheet or corrugated cardboard with what appeared to be MENU scrawled on it in such a manner as to only be discernable when put in front of a mirror. Such sophistication was ultimately lost on the Smiths.

Upon inquiry, the server insisted that the Smiths were holding the menus wrong, and suggested they learn French before going to a French restaurant. The server then refused any possible rebuttal by flapping his great wings and flying off towards the kitchen. Mr. Smith checked his surroundings and noted a naked man in the corner out loud, so as to inform his family. The naked man responded by tipping an invisible hat before going back to whatever he was up to.
"Terrific atmosphere, it is." Mr. Smith concluded.

I am very much fond of the end and would hate to spoil it with the upcoming comment; however I feel its inclusion vital to my own well being so instead I put it here: I am not happy with myself.

A grotesque reincarnation of the server not named Deborah appeared suddenly - her face oozing white cosmetics and her recently donned ballerina's outfit stained with red corn syrup - with a large plate. On top of the plate sat a rock, Mr. Smith's entre, an empty milk carton coated with a small amount of lighter fluid to be lit for Mrs. Smith, empty plates for the kids to smash, and a jar of mayonnaise accompanied by a paintbrush to be used for some malicious purpose I have yet to reveal. I am building suspense.
In response to the confused and tortured caricatures of the Smiths the server simply replied "Use your imagination." On that note she dipped the brush into the jar and proceeded to fling a good portion of it on everyone. Some even got on the naked man in the back, thus making him a little less naked and a little more ridiculous. The server preempted any threats of violence or obscenities from the Smiths with a single comment.
"It's performance art."

The Smiths gave a hearty round of applause as the server took a victorious bow, confidant she could become whatever she damn well pleased.