Restaurant de Marcel

I had been here before, but everything had changed. What had once been the elegant, refined, sepulchral Restaurant 4'33" had been sold; to a Frenchman, no less.

Apparently he was a graduate of L'Ecole internationale de mimedrame de Paris, whatever that was... The place was painted entirely in matte black, for some reason I couldn't quite fathom. I thought I could hear a piano-accordion playing, somewhere distant enough to be indistinct.

I glanced around, nervously, before spotting what appeared to be a waiter; a diminutive figure in whiteface, a French sailor shirt, flared pants, and a tattered top hat adorned with a spindly flower. I motioned the waiter toward our table.

She? arrived, reached into her apron and pulled out a pencil and notebook. Personally, I was expecting a menu. My face must have given me away, for with a flourish she whipped from behind her back... nothing, unfolded four of them and placed them in my, and my dinner guests', hands. I stared at the space between my outstretched palms while my waiter stood; tragicomically licking the tip of an imaginary pencil, an imaginary notepad poised, to take my order.

I shrugged, with a glimmer of confusion. The waiter gave a little moue of disappointment and reached over, took my imaginary menu and the others, and headed to the kitchen.

Fifteen interminable minutes later, during which I watched a wrinkled, pink, overdressed woman parading outside the window with a joke dog lead and no dog, the waiter returned.

She placed a plate in front of me then produced an invisible bottle of what I presumed to be wine. She filled a glass I couldn't see, then bowed and retreated. Hungry, I looked down at my empty plate. I looked up, expectantly, at my guests. No-one spoke; not a word...

It was then that I reached under the table. I found a hard, cold, oily handgun. I wrenched it free of its holster and drew it from under the table. The mime realised what was happening, too late.

The first, silenced shot took the mime just below the left shoulder blade, the hollow pointed slug tearing a fist-sized chunk out of its skinny little chest. It spun, twitching as three other bullets took it in flight.

Soundlessly, it slid to the floor in a spreading, smeared pool of sanguine ichor. The patrons' laughter was shockingly loud in the small space of the room.