It was a decent looking day when Catalina Vialpando stepped inside of 'Roscoe's Chicken & Waffle' in Portland. She always enjoyed unwinding after a job to a plate of syrupy waffles. She had walked in, did the usual, got a booth by the window and ordered a large plate of waffles and some bacon.

"Alright Beautiful, that order'll be ready in just a moment." The young waiter said, the slightest hint of a crude smile crossing his face.

Beautiful. Catalina turned the word over in her head several times. She tried to tell herself that it was a mere compliment and nothing else, but couldn't find it in her to do it. Probably just a nice young guy who was told to be extra nice to the lady customers. Well, maybe not. Just another stupid shit remark made in hopes of getting Catalina to act all cutesy, maybe even get her phone number. She laughed out loud. Cutesy wasn't exactly her thing. She preferred a guy you could enjoy robbing a bank with, or at least someone who would stand up to her every once in awhile. They were few and far between, most of them were overtaken by these fucking macho wannabe guys who can't fuck unless they're looking at themselves in a mirror.

She wondered if the bright eyed young waiter with his shiny black hair that was spiked up in the front, his 6'1 stature and athletic build had ever held a gun. She'd held a few, used most every one as well. Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood, taking her father's old .22 and taking potshots at birds. She remembered the sense of triumph when she hit her first one, remembered watching it's helpless form falling to the ground and not moving again. Then, one boring night when her mother was out trying to sell a trick on the street and her father was passed out in his old squeaky arm chair, she wondered what it'd be like to rob a place. Maybe part of it was fueled by the sense of hate she got when she looked at that lazy, fat and out of shape blob snoring away in that goddamn chair, without a care in the world. So she snuck the .22 and wandered out to the local 24 hour liquor store, pointed the thing at the clerk and telling him to empty the till. Pointing a gun at a human being had seemed so much different from firing at birds, she'd panicked and her finger slipped on the trigger. Wam. The clerk had doubled over as the bullet pounded into his gut. She'd grabbed the paper bag full of jack and ran. She'd kept running, not looking back to that poverty stricken Mexican hellhole she lived in. She never saw her prostitute mother or her alcoholic father again, and didn't feel to bad about it.

She could feel the gun that she currently held stuck in her waist, the cold steel pressing against her belly. But it felt good, knowing it was there. Nickel plated .38, Smith and Wesson. It was already loaded with the hammer pulled back. She remembered her old boyfriend, guy named Claude, who warned her about carrying a loaded gun with the hammer pulled back. Very sensitive trigger. Claude had been infatuated with guns, spending more time with the goddamn things than with her. She didn't like that too much, a gun was a gun. If you pulled the trigger, the bad guys would go away.

She looked up, Joe Macho the waiter was coming back towards her now with her platter of waffles and bacon on a huge circular tray, surrounded by glasses of orange juice, silverware, and some syrup containers.

He was eyeing her again, his gawking stare making her shift uncomfortably. Maybe it was a compliment, she was attractive. Oblique curves forming her perfect figure with a skin tone that hinted hispanic and an accent that confirmed it. She was clad in black jeans, some sort of black halter top and long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Yep, beautiful.

The waiter was closer now, still eyeing her. His eyes probably trained on her rack now, undressing her in his mind. Goddamn. She wanted him to stop, but didn't want to have to say it. He was almost at the table now, she had to make a decision quick. Have to get up and drive all the way around town to get to Waffle House, or take the stupid behavior and eat her fucking waffles. Stop it, she told herself in her mind. Things never ceased to make a bad day worse. Just one fucking day without something pissing her off beyond the point of no return would be nice, just one time... She thought of that old liquor store clerk doubling over as that .22 slug pounded into his gut.

Blam!

She decided as she felt herself pulling that nickel plated .38 from her waist and shot the waiter in the chest. Jesus Christ it was loud, louder that she anticipated. But satisfaction came out of it, her lips started curling into a feral half snarl-half grin. She extended her arm fully, squeezing one eye shut and looking down the top of the barrel. BLAM! He jerked to the side this time, stumbling backwards and about to fall. She could probably get one more shot in before he fell. She raised the gun and trained the small sight on the center of Joe Macho's neck. One final shot, right in the throat. Pow! The waiter was thrown backwards, his tray of orders scattering across the floor, dishes shattering. She'd probably have about twenty seconds to walk out the door before the restaurant erupted into chaos and panic.

"You want my fucking phone number you stupid bitch? There!" Catalina screamed, and immediately headed for her car.

Waffle House it was.