A man slides into the booth across from you. You recognize him vaguely, although he looks considerably different now. It is that man who appeared to be of Slavic origin, but who dressed in an absurd caricature of an Indian chief and called himself the Apache Tracker. Except now, it’s difficult for you to miss, he has actually transformed into a Native American. You wonder if the pie will get there soon. The Apache Tracker smells of potting soil and sweat. He leans across the table and touches your hand, lightly.
You do not pull the hand away, because you know that there will be no consequence for any of this.
“Вы в опасности.” (Vy v opasnosti. You are in danger.) he says. “Они идут.” (Oni idut. They are coming).
You nod. He taps the table. Then, bringing his thick eyebrows together and pursing his lips, he leans down and taps the ground. You nod again.
“I think my pie is here now,” you say unnecessarily, as the pie is quite visibly placed in front of you.
You did not order invisible pie. You hate invisible pie.
He looks at the pie for a long time, and then lets his breath hiss out slowly through his nose.
“Они придут снизу. Пироги не помогут.” (Oni pridut snizu. Pirogi ne pomogut. They are arriving from below. Pies will not help.) He leaves. What an asshole that guy is!