"3...2...1..."

Three...two...one...

Three blind mice would’ve seen it before I did.
Two eyes that cannot see the forest, or the trees.
One mind that is complete denial. With the eyes, you have a matching set.

They say that the proof is in the pudding, who the hell are they anyway? Have you ever seen any pudding submitted as evidence in civil or criminal court? I doubt that it ever has and if it ever was, it would stink like my ledger. The ledger is the proof, my accountant’s faxes are the proof and my suppliers cutting me off, are my proof.

My former investors sending unusually gorgeous women to come on to me before serving me with papers, are my proof. Which is the second most humiliating part of all because in the last two weeks, I haven’t been able to tell if a woman is genuinely interested in me, or in serving me with a summons. Having over one-hundred and ten patrons a day for two years straight and not having a dime to my name, is the ultimate and only proof that I need.

My accountant tried to tell me over and over again. They came up with convenient excuses not to show their version of the books to her over the last five months, then they told her that simply couldn’t find the books. I have no idea where my ex-partners are, but from what my accountant said, they are probably in a country that doesn’t have extradition and ironically, where they can live there the rest of their lives if they spend wisely.

What can I say? I understand the people side of the business, the logistical side, the laundry side, the fresh ingredients side, and the keeping the employees happy side. Everything about the business but the business itself. Because I never had a head for figures, so I trusted my gut instincts and went in with two embezzlers that could’ve shown even the Enron executives a new thing or two.

So the sturdy fixtures, they're versatile. The ones that I specifically asked for...they will serve another purpose, they will hold this rope...and my weight. The mahogany bar that is not long in length, but sturdy enough to have stood up to the over five-thousand customers that have leaned upon it or used it for support, it will hold fast one last time. I’ve spent almost half the day trying to count to three, no avail, and just now it has occurred to me rather that I should count backwards like a rocket launch.

After that? Me, a once proud, but now ruined man? I will haunt this property for two years and five days. That's roughly the same amount of time that my dream existed because all that is left to it. Then, I will roam the earth like a cross between Tom Joad and a Flying Dutch Restaurateur.

Where ever establishments charge sixty dollars a person and then have the temerity to serve French fries unworthy of even McDonald’s, I will be there. Where ever eateries serve five courses and the sum of those courses amount to less than one apple’s worth of food, I will be there. Where ever partners conspire to swindle and drive a restaurant into the ground, I will be there and they will never know another night’s sleep until they drive their ostentatious and ill-gotten cars off of a cliff.

Well, three...two...one...blastoff!


Note: It wasn't hard to find inspiration for this, it seems that two restaurants fold every day in San Francisco. The start sentence was simple, "3...2...1..."