Waffle Champion

“So this is how I die.” You stare up at the dimming fluorescent lights of the diner. You feel the chunk of burnt waffle lodged in your windpipe. It hurts, but there doesn’t seem to be much your body can do about it other than cough and spasm, which it’s doing less and less of.

Arms reach around your gut from the back & lock hands. They force the last of your lungs' air to blast the waffle fragment from your windpipe back to your syrup-drowned plate. Turning around you see a muscular woman who extends a stout hand & introduces herself as Helga Heimlich.

“Helga, it’s nice to meet you. I can’t thank you enough! I thought I was gonna die there for a second.” She nodded. “Waffles are serious business, young man, and they’re not to be trifled with! I’d suggest you take it easy and leave that kind of breakfast to the professionals.”

Helga began to demonstrate her breakfast cooking skills. She put all the ingredients in the bowl and stirred up a storm, then poured the battered batter in a waffle maker. She slammed down the lid. A shady man approached with a briefcase. “Your finest waffle, please.”

Helga turned. He was tall. He wore an Ill-fitting suit and his hair contained more grease than a fry up. “Coming right up,” she said. The man placed a Brown envelope on the counter, tapping it. “Read carefully,” he said, turning to leave.

Helga wiped sweat from her brow, nervously opened the envelope, and stared at the will in disbelief. She was to inherit a vineyard, boats, and a small fortune if she did one thing: quit her namesake diner and move to Scandinavia. She thought for a moment, then hung up her apron.