A Fork, A Packet of Ketchup and a BombMature

Actually, the first thing Genet did was march into the nearest McDonald's and order a Double Cheeseburger.

He did this because he was hungry, he had blasted three heads off already and he had had a long flight. The restaurant was only small, and its gaudy block colours looked out of place with the austere Russian surroundings, and the white canvas of the snow outside.

As Genet waited, he noticed the ketchup on the stand, with the free plastic cutlery and packets of salt. A scene from a film came to mind, and he told Ramon to hold his place in the queue.

"Your Royal Delxe and fries, sir," said the tired, gangly teenager behind the counter, keeping his eyes lowered. He looked up at the last word, to the strangled shriek Genet spontaneously gave, and saw him driving a plastic fork into his eye, while blood squirted from between the fingers of the hand that covered his eye --

The teenager inadvertently screamed too, and the few people in the McDonald's whirled round to see the noise. But they were stopped by laughter from Genet, who drew the fork and his hand away, showing the packet of ketchup.

The teenager laughed nervously, in relief. "There's your, uh, fries, sir," he said, after he had recovered. "And that'll be ten roubles, please."

Ramon de Sade handed Genet his wallet. Behind them, people went back to their meals. Genet opened it, and picked out a note, and put it down onto the counter, and picked up his bag, and began walking away.

"Sir? Uh - sir?" came a pubescent voice. Genet turned round, a pleasant grin on his face. "Sir, this is only five roubles, and your meal costed ten."

Something stirred inside Genet's insidiously dark psyche. Something angry, and about to explode. He was being shown up; he was being made out to look as poor as he had been bullied for in his childhood.

"Ramon, my wallet."

He looked inside the black wallet. There was nothing else in there. He had forgotten to bring more notes. He only had the five.

"Fuck off," he said, furious, more loudly than he had intended.

"Sir?" the teenager's eyes were wide, he was looking around.

"I haven't got a ten," said Genet in his broken Russian. "I've only a five."

"Sorry, sir, but..."

He looked at Ramon. The rage was taking over, and he was unable to express himself. He couldn't tell this teenager that he couldn't afford it, he just couldn't. And now everyone knew. It was a kind of public shaming. They'd probably known that he didn't have the ten, and that he'd walked in here with not enough money.

Public shaming.

In Amsterdam, if there was any public shaming, Genet did it - to someone else.

Before he knew it, the Glock was out. "Fuck off!" he roared, as he marched forwards to the teenager, as blood erupted from his head and body. "Fuck off, just fuck off!" He turned round and shot at the people in the restaurant, until he and Ramon were the only two left in there alive, until there was blood against the walls and in pools on the floor.

Genet took his Double Cheeseburger. He put his hand in the packet of fries, and chewed one, looking, for a second, like a Dutch farmer. "Let's go, before the police arrive."

He went out, but he was still stoked from the killing, and when he saw a taxi zoom past he raised his Glock and shot at it, mistaking it momentarily for a police wagon, knocking out two of the windows and making it almost crash.

The End

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