This place wouldn’t ordinarily merit LITG interest, but a confidential informant had told us that Eastbrook Café is in a building once occupied by Pinson’s, the old-school fried chicken joint best known for its scruffy décor and great pulleybones. The deep-cover source hinted that Eastbrook had the top-secret Pinson’s formula and was, in fact, serving up the best pulleybones in the Gump, right under our noses.
The A-Team was sent in -- Chase N. Allpots, Esq. (MI-6, SAS, S.N.O.B.), Tojo Yamamoto (big fat Ninja), and me, Bidgood Bob (watched every episode of Charlie’s Angels, at least until Shelley Hack came on board). The mission? A quick in and out to get the down and dirty on these pulleybones. Or so we thought.
We decided to gamble a little and use the “pulleybone method” to decide who was going to pick up the check. Mind you, on your Thanksgiving turkey this bone is called the “wishbone” and it is used like birthday candles -- for making wishes that never come true. But as anybody from down South knows, the wishbone’s chicken counterpart is known as a pulleybone and it is used as a fair way to decide outcomes, like odd-manning, rolling dice or cutting high card.
All hell breaks loose
About this time the front door and the fire exit burst open and in poured about a hundred state troopers, guns drawn, telling us to back away from the pulleybones. Oh, there was plenty of media there, too. TV cameras and microphones everywhere. We were trapped and apparently caught red-handed, Allpots standing there with the long end and Tojo shamefully holding his pitiful little nub of a short end. Our extensive escape and evasion training was useless. Even I knew there was no way out, and I am one of the best dine-and-dash men ever.
Gov. Riley strolled in with his world-class pompadour haircut and his smirking henchman, John Tyson, just about the time the troopers marched the staff out of the kitchen at gunpoint, followed by some kind of CSI geek with a zip-loc full of chicken parts. Tyson checked the bag.
“Pulleybones, Guvnah,” Tyson said, “Must be more’n a dozen of ‘em. Fresh, too.”
Riley peered into the bag. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like we got us some illegal gamblin’ chicken here.”
The Guv let Tyson do the honors. He walked over to the nice lady who owned the joint. “Ma’am, by the power vested in me by the Guvnah I am hereby seizing these illegal chicken parts and placing you under arrest.” A trooper slapped the cuffs on her.
Riley pointed at the distraught cooks and waitresses and said, “All of you ladies are out of work now. Go on home and starve to death, but don’t you dare become thieves or prostitutes to feed your babies, or I’ll be back for you!”
Allpots, who counts a law degree among his innumerable credentials, piped in, “See here, sir! I do believe you need a search warrant for these shenanigans.”
“Search warrant my butt,” replied Tyson, “Look at you, with the long end of a pulleybone right there in your hand, telling me about search warrants. Arrest this man!” he commanded.
Then Tyson made a grave error, kind of like poking a hornet’s nest with a stick to see what would happen. He pointed at Tojo, who was still holding the incriminating short end of the pulleybone and the lunch check. “Gambling with illegal pulleybones, huh? Arrest the Jap, too.”
In the same instant, Allpots leapt behind the Gov and pressed the needle-sharp point of his pulleybone (the long end) against the poofy part of Riley’s hairdo. “Nobody move,” said Allpots, “or I muss the Pompadour.”
Tojo tightened his grasp on either side of Tyson’s ribcage. “Troopers drop weapons and leave, or else,” he said as Tyson whimpered.
“Or else what?” asked the head trooper, with a bag of excellent, nearly boneless white meat in one hand and a cocked .357 in the other.
“Or else Tojo make wish.”
The standoff was so Mexican you would have thought we were in El Cantaro fighting over the last green enchilada. Tojo squeezed Tyson. Riley said a prayer for the Pompadour. Allpots brandished the long end. The troopers held their ground.
Riley gave the order. “Shoot,” he said. “Take ‘em out!”
“No,” pleaded Tyson, “The Jap might make a wish!”
Nothing happened. Not a single trooper pulled the trigger.
“What are you waiting for?” screamed Riley.
The head trooper lowered his hand cannon and offered the bag of chicken parts back to the cook. “Guvnah,” he said, “If these boys can’t snap a pulleybone to decide who pays the lunch check, well, they’re just gonna play credit card roulette or go rock, paper, scissors for it. Killin’ these fellas and seizin’ these pulleybones ain’t gonna solve anything.” He turned to face the troopers. “Boys, let’s get out of here and leave these folks alone.”
The troopers began to file out. The owner was uncuffed. Allpots dropped the long end and gave the Guv a light skob on the knob. The Pompadour didn’t budge. It appeared the trouble was over and peace once again abided in the Gump.
Then all eyes turned to Tojo, who still had a firm grip under both sides of Tyson’s ribcage. Tojo looked confused for a moment, then a little grin appeared. Tojo flexed his arms apart just a little and we all heard the resounding crack of a busted rib. Tojo dropped a sobbing Tyson to the floor.
“Tojo wish for world peace,” he said.
In this photo, Guv Riley and Chief Pascagoula seal the deal that will send
Alabamians scurrying to Mississippi for their pulleybones
Originally Posted on http://www.lunchinthegump.com/
