Athanasius Finch: Registered Flex Offender - ONC 2024

An Indecent Proposal

A warning note: If a man ever invites you to a "nice place they know where we can get a deconstructed French onion soup dish to die for," run. It's just a plate of onion powder, a crouton, and parmesan cheese. The only reason one would die for this would be because you choked on the sheer pair of cojones this wannabe Michelin star restaurant has for having the gall of charging two hundred moolah a plate.

In a way, that restaurant was just like Peter Katz himself, sitting across from me, sipping a pinot grigio, the Peter Katz of wines. At a simple glance, it looked fancy and well put together, but like a slightly used bedframe sold by a college senior off Facebook Marketplace, the devil's in the details. The whole place smelled of whatever ethnic restaurant was there before, there was an undefined stain in the ceiling that I could swear changed colors at least three times since we were sat, and I'm pretty sure one of the parmesan piles on my plate was a mount of cigarette ash.

It was a shit-show. A shit-show that could pass for something more competent at a glance. Kind of like Mr. Katz himself. I'm a person of integrity, so of course I went on a date with Mr. Katz. It also helped that I was contractually obligated to do so.

I could rate the experience of dating Mr. Katz as a 1.5/10, and that is conditioned on whether you find watching thirty-something play DDR at an arcade to work up an appetite, which I did, because he sucked, and I like watching bad people suffer. Another warning note: If your date picks you up in an Uber Carpool with a couple from Omaha that pays the cab extra so that they could take pictures of the city without getting down because they are afraid that some vaguely-defined gang of hoodlums would jump them because their only knowledge of New York comes from 80's action movies, run for the fucking hills. I'm certain you will get there faster than the car ever could.

Have I properly conveyed how much of a letdown this date has been? Wasn't Mr. Katz a millionaire or something? I can't believe I wore my best culottes for this.

"What's wrong, Miss Cagliostro? You've barely touched your crouton," said Mr. Katz. "You even got a bit with crust. You can't pay extra for that."

The worst thing about the date was that he was completely oblivious to how much of a cockwomble he was being. I slowly pushed the plate towards him.

"I'm not a Miss. And please, help yourself. I don't eat gluten."

He didn't hesitate to plunge his spork in and steal the most edible part of my dish. At least it was the first course. There were more opportunities to be disappointed later on. There was bound to be something I could eat.

"Your loss," said Mr. Katz. "Sometimes, the most delectable morsel is the most dangerous one. I can empathize with that. I, too, may appear dangerous and unhealthy, but I can assure you that, like this here crouton, I'm fucking delicious. You should get out of your comfort zone every once in a while and taste something new. I assure you that it will be worth it."

"Weird, I was thinking that the crouton reminded me of you: small, could barely fill me up, and way overhyped."

Was it a bit much? Yes, maybe, but flirting wasn't part of the contract. It didn't deter Mr. Katz in the slightest, as he simulated being dramatically stabbed by the spork.

"Ouch. Your tongue in sharp, and cuts deep. How about we bounce outta here and we go to my place? Let's see how deep that tongue can--"

"Oh, you asked for a date, and you'll get your date. We are not leaving here until I'm satisfied."

To that, Mr. Katz smirked at me. "Oh, you're gonna get your satisfaction, alright. Call the waitress over, and see if anything tickles your fancy. Order the whole menu, if it satisfies you."