Journal Entry: Subway Restaurant

Journal entry, 7/28/14: Justice Minotaur and Mr. Cornwall dined late last evening at a nearby location of the restaurant called “Subway.” The following exchange ensued between the employee working the sandwich counter and Minotaur:

Employee: “Welcome to Subway. What can I make for you?”

Minotaur: “I am given to understand that you will make a sandwich to my exact specifications, is that correct?”

Employee: “Yes, that is right. We make it your way!”

Minotaur: “OK, then, the first thing I want you to do is to remove the hygienic gloves before making my sandwich. And then I want  you to pick up one of those wheat buns and just kind of hold it like it’s a pet that has returned home after being lost.”

At this point, the employee said she needed to call her manager, and she went into the back of the store. A couple of minutes later Minotaur and Cornwall heard the screeching of tires and looked out the window to see her bolting from the premises in a 1989 Ford Probe. Minotaur then went behind the counter, removed his shirt, donned an apron, and proceeded to make sandwiches for customers for the next hour or so until the store’s regular closing time.

At 10:00 p.m., when it was time for the store to close and there were no customers around, Minotaur called the police on the store phone and, placing a sandwich wrapper over the mouthpiece to disguise his voice, reported that a “flaming meteor” had landed on the restaurant. “That will get the police over here so the place can be closed up properly. Someone has got to sweep and wash around here, and it ain’t gonna be me.” Minotaur and Cornwall then ran off on foot, into the night.


2 thoughts on “Journal Entry: Subway Restaurant

  1. Some of these so-called polices are probably in their own way the true sandwich makers which I mean of the way negative rather than sandwich artists.

  2. I once had a similar experience myself at the Subway restaurant location during an emergency business trip to Cheyenne, Wyoming (one of my company’s giant gelatinizers had become clogged with horse hooves, forcing me to oversee a squadron of illegals as they slayed and gelatinized the remainder of the herd by hand). Upon being offered by the sandwich employee to “Make it your way!,” I quickly removed my clothing and undergarments (save my socks), laid face-down upon one of the wooden tables, and ordered the employee to “dress me with oil, mayo, and spice, as you would dress a deluxe club sandwich.”
    –Willem de Foxe-Nougat, Heartworthe III

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