“Do you really taste like buttercrisps, Mister Melvin?”
The short order cook named Melvin Buttercrisps looked crisply at the redheaded girl with her freckled hands on the edge of the counter. He brought a hairy forearm to his mouth and gnawed. “Damned if I know. Tastes like rancid grease, but then the tastes of gods are suspect.”
“How did you escape?” Her bright blue eyes shone with anticipation.
“I don’t know, little lady. Last time around, your mum was fit to murder me. And this isn’t a story for little girls.”
“I’m here with Daddy, he won’t mind, and I’m not a little girl! I’m seven and half!”
“Ahh, there he is.” He lowered his head consiprationally. “Your folks sure like to talk on the phone, huh? Well, here goes…” He cleared his throat, comfortably leaned an elbow on the counter, and gestured with his free hand. “Sometimes you just gotta take your congressional, know what I mean, little lady—look at my eye, wink, wink—” She nodded. “—ah, yes, I see you do, you’re seven and half, after all. So sometimes you just gotta take your congressional, just sitting there with the morning paper maybe, or a funny look on your face…” He paused. “…and you just can’t cut it! You go through the entire day grumpy and cramped and you try again that night. No such luck. Well, can you just now imagine good ol’ Melvin, little and sure pissed off, as one is wont after being eaten enough times, holding on for dear life for weeks, perhaps years, in a god’s colon?”
The girl’s nose crinkled prettily. “What’s a colon?”
“It’s the section between the intestine and the rectum, dear.”
“Thanks, Daddy!” Her pigtails bobbed prettily. “Wait… what’s a rectum?”
Melvin Buttercrisps smiled as the girl’s father patiently explained the virtues of the digestive system over bacon and eggs. His belly rumbled as the coffee kicked in, and winking, he picked up the newspaper.