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On the road since six a.m., Jerry Taylor made twenty-eight sales calls without selling enough shoes to pay for the gas. Every customer was having a bad day or was angry about something, and they took it out on him. How he wished, just once, he could grab someone by the throat and choke the shit out of them. And yet he'd never actually committed a violent act in his life. When the stress got really bad, he indulged one of his few pleasures - he stuffed his face. Yes, the sun was going down, and before he checked into a motel for the night, he would find a place to eat.

Thirteen years in outside sales for various companies left Jerry addicted to fast food, so naturally he was overweight, had high blood pressure, and his stomach was frequently upset. A pack of Rolaids antacid took care of the stomach, and the rest didn't bother him. A sign up ahead flashed, "Al's Barbecued Chicken." He pulled into the parking lot.

Jerry paused inside the entrance and scanned the small, crowded room. The counter and booths along the walls were filled, but there were a few empty tables in the middle. He turned sideways to squeeze his bulky frame down the narrow aisle without brushing the tables or the patrons. He felt conspicuous and uncomfortable.

On his table, shoved between the salt and pepper shaker, he found a greasy six by nine menu in a plastic wrapper. A hand-written scrap of paper clipped to the top read, "Special Today - 4 Pieces, Mashed Potatoes, Green Beans, and a Buttered Roll, - $4.95."

Disregarding the "No Smoking" sign, he puffed a Camel while he waited for the waitress, and it burned down to the filter before she set a glass of water in front of him.

She walked away without once making eye contact. Jerry smoked another cigarette and glanced around at the people in the place. A redhead with her blouse half buttoned caught his eye. He watched her until her boyfriend came back from the men's room. At the table on his right were two girls in their late teens. One was fat, with stringy brown hair. The other had a better body, but her face was covered with acne scars that even heavy makeup couldn't cover, and her dirty blonde hair frizzed out in all directions. Though the tables were only inches apart, he couldn't catch their conversation over the noise, but "fuckin' this" and "shitin' that" came through loud and clear. The two girls hadn't been served yet, even though they were there before him.

The waitress said "I thought you two might need some time to wash your mouths out with soap before you ate." She turned to Jerry. "You want a straw for that Coke?"

The waitress pulled a straw from her apron, dropped it on the table, and walked away. Though Jerry could feel the girls glaring at him, he ignored them and dug into his chicken. Suddenly a hand darted out and snatched the buttered roll off his plate. Acne Face took a bite, then quickly put it back. It happened so fast he was stunned and stared at the roll in disbelief.

The girls' giggled while Jerry shook with anger. He could feel his ears getting red, as rage forced its way to the surface like lava in a volcano.

The chicken leg dropped from his trembling hand. Slowly, deliberately, he picked up the mutilated roll, and separated it into two halves. Wads of soft yellow butter coated both sides. Acne Face and her friend were bent over the table whispering and laughing and didn't see Jerry stand. With sweat pouring into his eyes and the blood pounding in his temples, Jerry thrust both halves of the roll, butter side down, into Acne Face's frizzy hair.

Neither girl moved, but the chubby one gave him a horrified look. She shook her head slowly and said, "You fucked up. You fucked up bad."

Too upset to respond, he sandwiched his way between the tables and up to the counter. Halfway there he glanced over his shoulder in time to see the two girls leave the restaurant.

Many of the patrons had witnessed Jerry's act of vengeance. The waitress noticed how quiet the place was. "What's the matter, mister?"

"Those two little bitches you sat me next to rained my buttered roll, and I want another."

The waitress frowned. "At sixty-five cents each, you can have as many as you want."

"What! You expect me to pay for it! I want to speak to the owner, and I mean now!"

The waitress made a sour face and disappeared through the swinging doors to the kitchen. A short, stocky man in his early forties, dirty apron tied around his waist, came back through the doors. He was wiping his wet hands and hairy arms with a dish rag.

"One of your customers swiped my buttered roll right off my plate. Don't you keep an eye on the people you let in here? I want another roll and I don't intend to pay for it."

"Hey, it's my fault somebody grabbed your roll?" the owner said. "Besides, how do I know you didn't eat it? You want another roll, you pay for another roll."

Jerry's blood pressure was off the scale. "Listen, godammit! I eat here a lot!" he lied. "Are you going to make a big thing out of a lousy roll !"

The owner stared at him for a second, then turned on the waitress. "Shit, Myrna, give this guy a goddamn roll."

The owner turned to the kitchen and slammed the swinging doors out of his way. When they rebounded, swinging back into the restaurant, Jerry saw him throw his dish towel against the wall.

The waitress buttered another roll, and Jerry, still huffing and puffing, waited impatiently. When he took it from her, he heard the owner yell from the back, "I hope you choke on the fuckin' thing!"

His face practically bleeding from anger and embarrassment, and his heart pounding in his chest, Jerry carried the roll back to his table with both hands. Even though he looked straight ahead, he knew everyone was watching him. He could feel it in every sweaty, greasy pore of his body.

Jerry wolfed down his dinner and his hand was fumbling in his shirt pocket for the Rolaids even before he lit his after dinner cigarette. As soon as the waitress left the check, he stubbed the half-smoked butt out in the plate, dropped enough cash on the table to cover the tab, and left without leaving a tip.

Jerry kicked at the dirt in the dusty parking lot and muttered out loud as he headed for his car. "No way I'll eat here again. Rotten food, rotten people, rotten town."

He was standing by the door of the Taurus and fumbling for his keys, when his spine exploded in pain. The seven inch blade skipped off a vertebra and slipped between two ribs.

"Jesus! What the hell!" Hands flailing at his back, he wheeled around and leaned on the car. In front of him stood Acne Face. Her stringy hair, still matted with butter, framed a visage contorted with hatred. She held a knife that dripped Jerry's blood.

Though he recognized her, she didn't seem human, and neither did her shrieking, quavering, high-pitched voice. "You fuckin' asshole!" Flecks of foam flew from her lips.

Jerry's head spun and his knees got weak. He slid down the car door until he was sitting in the dirt of the parking lot. Both blood and anger flowed away from him. Now, staring down at his shiny, company shoes, he was calm and peaceful.

And yet, as the shoes blurred, his guts tightened inside. For the last thing he heard was the banshee voice of Acne Face. "Did you have to make a big thing out of a lousy buttered roll?"