An Indecent Promotional Stunt

        No wine glasses or set of utensils in Los Angeles Pizzeria were in use. The only other items on any of the tables were red and white checkerboard patterned cloths used as decorative cover. The tables devoid of any food, drink, or other personal effects from customers. The wooden chairs on each side of the table – empty. The air void of the aroma of any cooking food or any men with way too much cologne for their midday date. The only noise throughout the building was Charlie’s pen on the accounting ledger in the back office; the quiet is a death knell for a restaurant that should be brimming with noisy patrons and cooking activity at this one o’clock lunch time hour.

               Within the back office, a conversation brewed. “I don’t see how you can save any more money. You already laid off every employee. Staring at that damn ledger isn’t going to save you any money,” Maria spoke firmly to her husband, trying to speak some sense into him in the back office.

               “All because of that damn review! LAFoodWeekly.com’s ‘Worst Restaurant in LA’? The food is too salty?” Charlies yelled at no one in particular, “This is an insult to the recipe my mother created and fed two kids and half her church on!”

               “Why don’t you just change the recipe for the pizza crust and tomato sauce? That’s what the article was upset about.” Maria’s volume began to rise with frustration, while simultaneously rolling her eyes. She had heard the rant about the mom and the recipe numerous times, even before they decided to open the restaurant—well, more accurately, he decided to open the restaurant.

               “Never! Then its not my mother’s recipe anymore!” Charlie yelled even louder than before.

               “WE LEVERAGED OUR HOUSE!” Maria’s voice matched the intensity of Charlie.

               “WHICH IS WHY WE NEED TO FIND A SOLUTION!” Charlie shouted, but then he sighed. He repeated himself in a calmer, almost dejected fashion, “We need to find-“

               “I GAVE YOU A SIMPLE SOLUTION AND WE ARE GOING TO BE HOMELESS AND YOU STILL REFUSE TO LISTEN TO-“

               “I got an idea! They say that there is no such thing as bad publicity-“

               “IT WAS BAD PUBLICITY THAT GOT US INTO THIS!“

               “Shut up! Let me think.” Charlie put up a hand to dismiss her statement and stared at the barren wall in front of him. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. So we need to think of something to bring publicity to the restaurant.” Marie put her head in her right hand as Charlie continued, “And I have the idea that will bring all of the publicity to our restaurant. You know Mark Andrew McArthur?”

               “The white supremacist activist who shot those FBI agents and is only free from jail because of a legal technicality?! That one?” Maria breathlessly spoke each word as if she couldn’t believe what was coming out of her own mouth.

               Charlie grinned. “The same one! Everywhere he goes, crowds go to protest! There will be enough business from hungry protestors to save the business!”

               Maria clenched her fists together, took a breath, then calmly stated “I’m going to stay with my mother tonight” as she walked out of the room. Charles didn’t notice Maria exit as he immediately turned to his computer to Google McArthur’s publicist’s information.

               A week later, the crowd Charlie anticipated was right outside the door, blocking the parking lot and pouring into the adjacent street, blocking off the lane closest to the restaurant. A wave of chants shouting “Hate is not welcome!” emanated from the crowd. News vans from local news were blocking any part of the street not already blocked off by the dozens of protestors.

               Charlie was waiting in his restaurant when a man who looked to be in his early thirties walked in, wiping his head with a handkerchief, then wiped a stain on his left breast area. His uniform looked like it was intended to be military fatigues, but lazily designed to simply be an olive green shirt and pants with a couple light brown spots. He had several patches identifying with various Neo-Nazi organizations. He reeked of cigarette smoke.

               “Mark here, brother,” the man spoke in a gruff voice as if his voice was designed to emulate a piece of gravel in a blender.

               “Pleasure to meet you,” Charlie held out his hand, but Mark did not reciprocate. There was an obese man next to Mark who wore pure black and wore a WWI Kaiser helmet. Charlie turned to shake this man’s hand.

               “He doesn’t talk. Just security,” Mark spoke in a low voice, “Now where do I go to speak?”

               Charlie pointed him towards a makeshift stage that really was just a bunch of tables pushed in a half-circle with a microphone connected to a small amplifier located behind the semi-circle. After about a half-hour or so, eight men walked in all dressed in poor renditions of military fatigues, mostly overweight, and either balding or sporting an Army-length buzzcut.

The men took their seats and Mark began speaking at the microphone. His speaking was mostly tuned out by the shouting crowds outdoors, but Charlie could intermittently hear various vile racial epithets from the speaker. Charlie then interrupted. Trying to seize the business opportunity, he handed Mark a slice of cheese pizza and told him to “Try it out as a favor for letting him speak.” Charles also gave the audience free slices of pizza as well.

“Anything for a brother who lets us spread the word,” Mark replied then turned to the crowd and gave a fist of defiance. Then Mark took the pizza in his hand and crunched on it. He immediately gagged and spat out the pizza. The audience also spat out the pizza bite in near unison. Mark’s eyes flared at Charles.

“What the hell do you think you’re trying to do?!” Mark yelled, putting a fist up as if ready to punch Charles.

“HE’S TRYING TO POISON US!” one of the men in the audience shouted then gasped, “LET’S GET OUT OF HERE! THERE MAY BE OTHER THINGS TRYING HERE TO KILL US!” The entire audience got out in unison and sprinted out of the door.

Mark turned to Charles, pointed, and grumbled “You better watch out buddy. You tried to kill the wrong people.” He then turned to sprint out of the door with his audience.

“I wasn’t trying to kill you guys,” Charles spoke quietly, each word more slowly as his audience had left and there was no one to listen.

The audience outside began cheering and Charles rushed to see what the commotion was all about. As soon as Charles stepped outside the door, the crowd erupted in a deafening roar.

“What the…” Charles muttered to himself. The crowds were approaching and gaining on him, leaving him unable to step more than a few feet from the door.

“There he is! There’s the guy who poisoned the Nazis!” a voice from the crowd shouted and the cheering, clapping, and hollering erupted again.

“I…didn’t…” Charles muttered before he was approached by an attractive blonde woman who clearly was wearing way too much makeup. She held an approximately foot-long microphone bearing a logo of a local news station. She wore a white shirt covered by a red blazer and a red skirt. She almost tripped over her high heels, practically skipping to catch the hot interview with Charles. Behind her, a burly man wearing jeans and a plaid, lumberjack-style jacket over a pure black t-shirt sauntered over while holding a large camcorder over his right shoulder.

The woman stopped approximately a foot from Charles. He leaned back at a slight angle to maintain whatever was left of his personal space. She pointed the microphone to her face. The man with the camera knelt down and pointed the camera at the woman and Charles.

The woman turned straight to the camera, holding what appeared to be some sort of communication device in her ear. She then stated in a voice above normal, but lower than a yell, “Barbara Mishku here from KVLA 12 live at the site here in Los Feliz of what was an anti-Nazi protest has now turned to a celebration. I’m here with Charles Ferengi, owner of Los Angeles Pizzeria, and,” she turned to Charles and spoke in a peppier voice, “you have got quite the crowd support. What did you do to get those white supremacists running away from here?”

“I…have…no idea,” Charles stammered, caught off-guard by the question and the whole situation.

Barbara unflinchingly responded in the same slightly above normal, lower than a yell, tone, “Rumor around here is that you gave those people poisoned pizza. Is that true?”

Charles’s eyes furrowed and his head went back slightly at the shock of the question. He defiantly and firmly responded “What the?! No! I would never poison my pizza! I’m still trying to get business here and don’t want to be known as the poison guy,” he then gestured for the news crew to go inside the restaurant, “Follow me this way. I will show you the pizza I gave them. There’s still a couple of slices.”

Barbara’s eyes opened wide with fascination. She turned to the camera and was barely able to hide her excitement, “Are we going to watch a man poison himself on live TV? Stick with us to find out!”

Charles was already walking ahead of the news team. He turned around as soon as the comment was made and yelled “NO!” but the microphone did not pick up his voice. Charles and the news team navigated past the disarray of chairs and tables to the counter where the pizza box.

Charles puffed out his chest slightly and defiantly turned to the camera. He stated in a proud voice “I will eat a slice of this pizza and will not be poisoned!” He then reached into the box with his left hand and took out a slice of pizza. Then he took one bite of the slice of pizza. His eyes then bulged, he slowly continued chewing, his mouth contorting with each bite, then he forced himself to swallow it. He then stuck out his tongue and grimaced from the taste in his mouth.

“Water!” his voice came out barely audible, as if he was dying of thirst. Then he immediately composed himself and turned to the camera. “This. This is not the recipe. This is not how my mom makes it. Let me go back here and see what happened.”

“We have to go back to the studio.”

“Wait just a minute,” Charles barked. He then jogged back to the kitchen and within seconds came back out to the camera, almost jumping as if he had a Eureka moment. He then exclaimed “This recipe was all wrong! We’ve been making it all wrong.” His face shone with the jubilee of this revelation. “We accidentally put in 10 tablespoons of salt instead of one teaspoon of salt. Come to Los Angeles Pizzeria where we fixed the recipe for you.”

Barbara stood still for a minute. She struggled to regain her earlier composure for a couple seconds before uttering “Did you ever even try the food you were making before selling it?”

Charles turned to the camera, smiled, and confidently stated “Of course not Barbs. I didn’t want to take away anything from the customers. That’s embezzlement, you know?”

 Barbara turned back to the camera and emphasize “BARBARA Mishku. Back to you in the studio.” After that, Barbara and the camera operator walked out of the restaurant without saying a word. She exited the restaurant and as soon as she opened the door, she yelled “NOT A POISONING! OWNER DIDN’T KNOW WHAT HE WAS DOING!” The crowd groaned in unison and dispersed within a couple minutes.

During the commotion outside, Charles just stood there inside. We got it right this time. My restaurant is going to be saved! Not looking forward to telling Maria she was right about the recipe. I hope she’s well. I haven’t seen her since she went away somewhere last week.