"Right. Yes, she was that bad. She's hellspawn. But, no, you don't need to do anything."

Charlene walked over to her. "I'll be completely honest with you. This job sucks and I don't care if I get fired or not. So I'm more than happy to make your problem go away."

"I don't want you to get in trouble."

"I just said that I don't care if I get fired. I'm not going to stab her in the eye with a fork. This will make you feel better, I promise."

"No. Don't do it."

"Sorry. The train is already in motion. If you want to stop me, you'll have to tackle me."

Charlene turned and left the back room. She walked over to the chef's station and picked up a tray that was meant for table fourteen, then strode into the dining area. She went over to table eight, where a middle-aged woman who looked like she clubbed dolphins for amusement sat across from a much older man who looked like he purchased the dolphins for her to club for amusement.

"Your server had a family emergency and had to leave," Charlene informed them.

The woman looked annoyed by this. The man shrugged and made a non-committal grunt.

"Who had the lasagna?"

"That's not our order," said the woman. To be fair, it legitimately wasn't her order, but the snotty-ass way she said this made it clear that Gertie was not exaggerating about her unpleasant nature.

"It's not?" Charlene asked. "Are you sure?"

"We're not senile. We remember what we ordered."

Charlene glanced back at the kitchen. Gertie stood in the doorway, watching closely, looking very nervous about what Charlene might do. She even looked like she might regret not tackling her. Oh well.

"Hmm. I was told to bring this plate of lasagna to you. Maybe I misheard. I can be so scatterbrained sometimes. They're forever telling me to get my head screwed on straight, but do I listen? Nope. Head's still on crooked. See?"

She tilted her head. Then she spilled the plate of lasagna all over the front of the woman's dress.

"Oh no!" said Charlene, as everybody in the restaurant turned to look. "Oh dear!"

"Goddamn it!" The woman stood up. Tomato sauce, cheese, and pasta slid down her dress.

"I'm so very sorry! I'm such a butterfingers!"

Charlene looked back at Gertie. She was staring in shock with her hand over her mouth. Charlene couldn't tell if she was pleased or not. It didn't matter—Charlene was pleased.

She set down the tray, then picked up a cloth napkin and dabbed at the woman's dress. "At least it wasn't spaghetti. That's way slimier. Let me help you."

The woman swatted her hand away. "Don't bother."

"My apologies. We won't charge you for the lasagna."

"I didn't order the goddamn lasagna!"

"It makes God sad when you use language like that."

The woman gave her a look of pure, raw hatred.