Milkshake #2

This is a Milkshake story.
It was written by Tyrone and is dedicated to the Milkshake Preservation Society.
Thank you for reading it if you read it.

Carl wandered a mile into town. It was hot, he was sweaty and the back of his neck was dirty. He bit off one of his fingernails, spat it out, spotted a diner down at the end of the block and sauntered over yonder.

He was almost blinded by the cool air of the diner as he walked in. He sat down at the counter and Carl told the waitress he'd have a vanilla milkshake.

"Sorry, mister. But that gentleman over there just ordered the last one and our ice cream delivery doesn't come until tomorrow morning. Can I get you something else?"

Carl didn't answer the waitress. Instead he turned his head and shot a look down the counter at Gene. Gene turned and shot a look back at Carl. The waitress set the milkshake down on the counter, right in front of Gene.

"I want that milkshake."

"It ain't your milkshake!"

Knife

Knife

Shunt. Twist. Up. Out. Drop.

Carl stepped over Gene's dead body, grabbed the milkshake and peered over at the waitress who was right near shock.

"I'd walk a mile for a milkshake," Carl said to the waitress, whose agape mouth looked like it ought to be making a whole lot of noise, only it wasn't making a peep at all.

Carl sipped long and hard on the milkshake, never once taking his eyes off the waitress. Once he finished the milkshake, he set the empty glass down on the counter, turned and walked out of the diner.

Just as the door was closing behind him, Carl poked his head back in and looked back at the waitress. "Hell," he said, "to be honest, I'd prolly do a few other things for one too."