The Salty Salad

Ireland. It is raining. I follow my colleague Ian into a bar. He is with his wife and child.

He orders some food. And egg salad. I order tea, and an onion salad. I panic when I can’t find my wallet. I search my pockets. Credit cards, but no debit cards. We sit down to eat in a mound of salt, like a snow drift. I have to scrape the salt off my salad. We chat. I need the lavatory, I stand on a ramp talking to a Cambodian woman. Upstairs two pub musicians are playing.

A disabled veteran is in a robot suit. He attacks other soldiers, flame throwing a tank. Firing missiles. After destroying them all, he returns to his mobility scooter, and drives away.


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