The Lankville Daily News

By Brian Schropp

So a few days ago I was helping my friend Trucker Joe clean his big rig. “A clean truck always gets you to the promise land”, he kept telling me. I have no clue what that means but Joe is a pretty philosophical sort so a lot goes over my head. Anyway, while vacuuming his “sleeping quarters” I found, shall we say, a few “adult materials” which probably help keep his nights warm. Now me being a very “sweet” and “gentle” man, I usually would not look through such things but a few of the titles intrigued me. In the back of one I found an advertisement for “Sylvia’s Waffle House of Shame”, part S&M club (whatever that means) and part waffle house.

“The French Toast is pretty good there!!” said Joe as he snuck up behind me carrying an industrial hand vacuum. “Good both ways if you know what I mean.”
I did not. I asked him If I could just go for breakfast and nothing else.
“Not sure Bri, you should go and see. If not, it won’t do you no harm, might loosen you up a bit, maybe make you calm down about a few things.”
Now, I am a very open-minded man but cheap waffle sex is not my thing. I’m more a “warm hand-holding in the library” type of guy. Nonetheless, the place did peak my interest enough to check it out.

Now, I am a very open-minded man but cheap waffle sex is not my thing. I’m more a “warm hand-holding in the library” type of guy.

The waffle house was located in the red light district of downtown Lankville City. Per usual, my downtown adventures required nimbly passing between hustlers and dealers on every corner plus the homeless always looking for change or wanting my shoelaces. I soon came to my destination. The building looked like a waffle house but it was lit up like the surrounding buildings with garish neon signs. Their sign in particular offered the promise of eggs, waffles, and various adult delights. Inside, I found a rather large woman dressed all in leather standing at a hostess desk. This woman turned out to be Sylvia herself.

Sylvia’s Waffle House of Shame (building before the Laundry).

She greeted me warmly enough and in a thick Eastern Island accent asked me what I wanted. I replied that I understood what this establishment was about and I just wanted to sample the food.

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “You can’t taste the pleasures of our fine breakfast food without feeling some pain.”

I assured her that I was an up-and-coming food critic with a good taste palette and a particular fondness for breakfast food. “I write for The Lankville Daily News, after all,” I added.

She looked at me for a moment then asked if I was that “breakfast sandwich boy”. A certain sinister smile came across her face when I told her I was. My “stranger danger” instincts kicked in and I knew I was getting in over my head. I turned around to leave but another large woman in leather had bolted the door.

“You are going nowhere. I’m going to teach you how to really enjoy a breakfast sandwich. Take him to Room 206. I will be there shortly.”

I was escorted quite forcibly down a dark hallway. As we passed other doors I heard screaming for various breakfast foods followed by the crack of whips. Some sounded like they were having a good time, others quite the opposite. We made it to Room 206 and I was told to wait inside.

The room had a small booth to one side and the wall on the other side was covered by various whips, paddles and assorted devices. I sat down at the booth and awaited my fate– I was hoping there was still a way to reason with Sylvia. She soon came in and sat across from me.

“So, you think you know breakfast sandwiches?”

I told her in fact I was an expert and if she would only let me sample the food–but she shushed me quickly.

“You know nothing. You never had pleasure with pain.” She smiled that sinister smile again “Tell me, have you ever had a breakfast sandwich drenched in maple syrup?”

My mind started to swirl. “I–I–have heard of such things. But never had because–because–”

“You are frightened of them. But they are glorious, the most supple things ever to grace those lips but you will need the pain to go with it—”

I needed a moment to collect myself and think. “I–I need to use the restroom.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes and suddenly lost her Eastern Island accent. “Out the door, up the hall and to the left.” As I went to leave she grabbed my wrist and the accent was back. “But don’t take too long or else there will be severe punishment!”

Once inside the restroom I was able to splash water on my face and come to terms with what was going on. It was all too much, I am a man who prides himself on new experiences but this was out of my league. I needed an escape plan and fast. I noticed a window above the toilet, a little small but my frame might just squeeze through. I stood on the toilet and found the window was bolted, my heart sank. I felt my hopes dashed until I remembered the small pocket knife in my sock that Trucker Joe had given me. Good ol’ Joe, saving me even when he’s not around!! I knew that time was of the essence, Sylvia would not wait long.

Maple syrup comes from trees.

I had two of the four bolts out before the pounding started on the restroom door. Soon it was the jiggling of keys. I became too nervous, the pressure was too much. The army knife fell from my hands when I heard the door open and I blacked out. I woke up in darkness. It took me a second to realize I was blindfolded. I was strapped to something with my arms and legs stretched. And there was something in my mouth, it tasted good. Maple syrup with bacon, egg, on a tender biscuit—

SMACK!!
First there was only pain, my backside was on fire!! Tears flowed from my eyes. Then there was the sweetness of the syrup coming through–
SMACK!!
The pain was greater but so was the sweetness, the way it brought out all the flavors in the egg and bacon. I never tasted anything like this before!!
SMACK-SMACK-SMACK!!!!
The eyes rolled in the back of my head, I felt myself lift out of my body and onto another plane of existence (was this really happening?!!!). I heard music coming from somewhere, faint at first then growing until it filled my ears. It was like the greatest symphony ever composed and possibly a choir singing (sounded like bumpkins?). Then from the darkness a light. Faint at first like the music and then growing until it swallowed me whole. I blacked out again.

I awoke laying on a pile of trash bags a few blocks from my house. Not sure how I got there or how the folks at the waffle house knew where I lived. A few super squirrels were eyeing me in the distance. It was a good thing I awoke when I did. For a moment I wondered if maybe it was all a dream but then the pain in my backside told me it was all too real.

Reflecting back in my “bedroom apartment” (with a pillow on my seat) there is a part of me that feels humiliated, taken advantage of, a part of my innocence gone forever. But then there’s a small part of me, a part which experienced the sweetest taste I ever had. It opened my mind a little to something more and for that Sylvia I thank you!! Maybe I can work up the nerve one day and go back to try the “ham and egg special” I saw listed on the wall. Well until next time, keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas!!

Happy Eating,
BRI

By Brian Schropp

I’ll start out with a good tip I learned the hard way (and hopefully save you some headaches). If you’re cooking chicken make sure you cook it ALL the way through. You can’t just make up a temperature and cooking time and then expect it to be done. Even though the outside may look cooked you need to check the inside. After all, “raw is raw!!!” (thank you for that rhyming tidbit Mom). I know this from experience–in my attempts to make a “Breakfast Sandwich Pot Pie” for dinner, I sent my family to a long night at the Emergency Room (for some reason I am fine). After everyone got the all clear and the anger and the cussing died down all was forgiven. But I would like to apologize again in print to my wonderful family who bare the brunt of my “wacky” and “cutting edge” culinary ideas.

Cuisine

And a quick bonus follow-up tip- if you’re cooking with frozen and room temperature foods make sure you make the frozen food the same temperature. “You can’t just pile everything in together and expect it to cook” (thanks again Mom, my cooking guru).

In other news, turns out Mort Freidberg of “Mort’s Pump and Food Depot” has changed the recipe for his nacho cheese and not for the better. “Well Bri, I didn’t change too much,” Mort said to me as he mopped up someone’s vomit in the discount sandwich aisle. “I just brought the machine out, cleaned it up a bit and put in new cheese.”

I get it. The publicity I brought to the delicious nacho cheese was too much. Maybe Mort and his wife couldn’t keep up with the demand? A lesson learned in the food writing trade, you gotta keep the real gems to yourself. Next time I might offer Mort some money for the original recipe. Then, I could see one of my childhood dreams of owning a restaurant that serves only nacho cheese come true!!!

And finally, my attempts to inquire about the bumpkins are going nowhere. Both Lloyd Byas-Kirk and Detective Gee-Temple have gone very hush hush on the subject. Is their new information? When is the memorial going to happen? Maybe a little update before my column will help?

As always readers, remember to keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas.

Happy eating!
BRI

By Brian Schropp

CUISINE BY BRIAN SCHROPP

Please do not take this article the wrong way. I believe myself to be a reasonable person (my female relatives refer to me as a “sweet” man). It is rare that I speak ill of anyone. But the editors and readers of this paper must come to understand what type of man Hank Cameron is. Far too often, people put on a front to their neighbors, their community, and society at large which turns out to be false and in fact causes greater harm–take any of the Lankville dictators of the 19th century for example. I know the risk I am taking so everything written in this article has been thoroughly checked by myself or by members of the BSU (Breakfast Sandwich Underground).

Hank Cameron (unflattering close-up file photo)

I went to speak with a few former employees of Foodville who served under the hegemony of Hank Cameron.

Shane Laksby is now a “Pizza Chef” at the “Pondside Pizza A Go Go” but was formerly a stockboy at Foodville. I caught him on a smoke break behind the pizza joint.

“Oh yeah I worked for him,” Shane said, taking a big puff of his nasty smelling hand-rolled cigarette. “SOB fired me about a year ago, he gave me a whole list of bogus reasons. I was never THAT late going into work and coming back from my break, what’s a few minutes here and there? And the pepperoni cooler is cold, dude, I mean really cold so I had to take a lot of small breaks to warm up. It makes no difference now, I found this sweet job in the pizza trade making fifty more cents an hour.”

Shane’s new manager suddenly came to the door and screamed at him to get inside so he couldn’t offer any other details.

The next former employee I went to see was Shelia Denton who use to be a Lead Grocery Bagger under Hank Cameron’s yoke. She is still unemployed so I went to see her at the Triple Caved-In Hills Apartment Complex. Yes, I know its a rough area filled with all sorts of unsavory characters. I did my best to “look the part” of living at a complex, even purchasing a cap to wear sideways. Shelia answered on the third buzzer with her newest child bouncing in her arms. “He was such a douche,” she told me over the loud voices of other kids and some roving guy in the apartment. “He said I was never quite quick enough bagging the groceries and kept holding up the line. The thing is I would get my nails done before work so I was trying to be careful. That [expletive] didn’t care, he fired me even though he knew I was about to have Little Tony here.”

Sheila Denton: Destroyed by Hank Cameron

“So Ms. Denton can you tell me about any other incidents? Maybe you saw him take money out of the register and pocket it? Did he ever ask you for any sexual favors?” I held my pen over my notebook hopefully.

“He might of eyed me up if I was wearing a tight outfit. Are you a cop? No, wait, you’re that breakfast sandwich boy aren’t you? The one who used to call the store all the time!!!”

Before I could respond the boyfriend (who was probably called Big Tony) came to the door. “Did I hear someone say cop? Who are you? What do you want? Wait, you’re that breakfast sandwich freak! Didn’t I beat you up a lot in high school?”

Big Tony made a grab for me but I was already moving down the hallway towards the steps. He chased me a little but luckily in the twenty plus years since high school Big Tony got big. And though I’m not the most athletic person in the world, I can be quite “nimble” as my female relatives note. I made it out of there pretty handily.

Next up, I went to see Koala Bears and Walnuts Club Accounts Manager Mitch Bowman. I had been given financial documents by a certain member of the BSU which related to the monthly statements of the club, a youth organization Hank Cameron is in charge of. Looking through these documents I found that during the month of October, 2012 the club was short $11.61. Mr. Bowman met with me in his windowless office.

“Where did you get these papers?”

“It doesn’t make any difference Mr. Bowman. Tell me about October of 2012. There was a $11.61 shortage.” I eyed him up knowingly.

Mitch Bowman: Clearly Hiding Something

“Yes, things like this happen sometimes.”
“But to have a shortage means Hank Cameron kept that money.”
“It could mean a lot of things Bri.”
“But that’s the most likely scenario.”
“It’s only $11.61.”
“That could have bought a pizza for a pizza party for the youngsters. Or even a new Walnut Badge for a hard working member?”
“Yeah sure but–”
I cut him off. That was all I needed to hear.

Finally, I went to a “neighborhood friend” of Hank Cameron who didn’t want to be named. Their families were close at one time but the events of the following story put a strain on their friendship.

“Our families would exchange gifts all the time, holidays, birthdays, mainly for the kids you know? My wife and I would really go out of our way to find good gifts, sometimes they were expensive but that was ok it was good quality. Hank had always been appreciative of this and said he did the same for our kids.”

He paused for a moment to wipe a tear forming in his eye.

Hank Cameron entering a men’s bathroom. Why? (Photo by Brian Schropp)

“Turns out my wife saw him down at the “Dee Less Book and Music Bargain Bin” buying gifts– that, that place for lower-class people. She said Hank was yelling at the clerk to find the most pristine copy of things. He even took a bunch of their free wrapping paper. His whole “going out of his way to find a perfect gift” was a sham. Is that what he really thinks of my kids? Getting them a $1.98 book “The Butterflies of Eastern Lankville” then saying he paid $9.95 for it!! I’m done talking about this–”

Hank’s neighbor ran inside his home sobbing. I walked away shaking my head, another good man brought down by Hank Cameron.

I know I have severely run over my word count for this article but all of this needed to come out to the public. I ask you, is Hank Cameron Manager of Foodville a good man? A man who fires teens and pregnant women? A man who steals from the “Koala Bear and Walnuts” club? A man who buys the cheapest gifts for his neighbor’s kids? Is this the type of man we want to give praise to? I leave you to answer that.

On a quick side note, has anyone heard about the bumpkins lately? Seems like the story has faded away. Email me at breakfastsandwichboy@lankvillenews.net if you have.

Until next time keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas.

BRI

By Brian Schropp

HARD WORK AND HOLIDAY SAUCE

Cuisine

Yes, it’s that time of year again when the holiday eats are in full bloom. And nothing says holiday eats like holiday sauces– a staple of festive meals. Many Lankvillians will instantly think of cranberry, mint and hollandaise but my sauce of choice is nacho cheese. Sure, it’s an odd choice, you might say, but I find that the subtle nuances in a good nacho cheese can put a whole new spin on a good turkey or honey baked ham (sorry Mom, I did not ruin Thanksgiving– you just need to give these culinary ideas a chance).

 My favorite nacho cheese comes from a gas station…

My favorite nacho cheese comes from a gas station– Mort’s Pumps and Food Depot off Interstate 42. Now, I will be the first to admit that you take a gamble getting any food there. “I don’t mean to make people sick,” owner Mort Freidberg once told me, his azure eyes filling with tears. “My staff and I honestly forget to check expiration dates.” Nevertheless, I find there is something about Mort’s nacho cheese– the flavor, the texture, the way it melts into the oft-stale chips and the frequently cold chili that is simply delicious and overly-satisfying. I actually took a cup home and added it as a glaze to the Thanksgiving turkey my Mom was preparing. And although I was a party of one on the results and even though Dad says I’m on my “second strike” relating to ruining holiday functions, I’m still going to try and make it a yearly tradition.

I decided to head down to Mort’s and speak with him about his exuberant nacho cheese sauce. I was hoping he would open up and share his recipe, perhaps reveal the creator of this stunning snack nectar. Was it the delicate touch of his wife LeAnna? Was Mort himself the gastronome? What sort of cheeses are used (I taste MANY, EVERY time). So off I went with my compass and atlas of Lankville in hand (I could not get a lift from any family members, post-Thanksgiving anger still appears to be lingering) to Interstate 42. I owe another big shout-out to my dear friend Trucker Joe who found me lost, confused and screaming near the Lankville Badlands of Route 71 and got me to my desired destination.

The station was bustling with activity upon my arrival. Gas pumps were flowing and customer stomachs were wobbly and turbulent. After talking down a patron who wanted to call the health department over a ham and cheese sandwich, Mort was able to give me a few minutes of his time.

Mort examines the interior of the nacho cheese dispenser.

“What can I do for you, Bri?”

“I’m here to talk about your nacho cheese, Mort. It’s some of the best I’ve ever had and believe me sir, I have been trying nacho cheese all over Lankville since I was a little kid. I’m hoping you will show me how this marvelous sauce is made.”

“Wait, I sell nachos here?” Mort responded.

“Yeah, I get them all the time when my Dad stops for gas.”

“At my place? You’re not talking about Ben’s Double Food Arena up the road? The place with the high seats?” Mort put his hand above his head for illustrative purposes.

I was confused. “No, it’s right over here,” I said. I walked him to a back corner of his store near the canned meat and pastry goods island.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Guess I do.” Mort walked over and slapped the side of the machine. “So, it works you say?”

I rolled my eyes– I could tell he was playing some sort of game.

He took a nearby bag of chips then (shaking his head at the expiration date) and placed it under the nozzle. There was a loud cranking sound and then that beautiful nacho cheese was luxuriously ejaculated.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath. “Tell you the truth, Bri, I bought this thing at a flea market a few years back. I put it in this darkened corner with the intent of eventually looking it over. Then I just plain forgot about the sucker.” He fingered the nacho cheese atop his chips gingerly.

It was then that I knew his game. “It’s okay, Mort, I understand. You don’t want anyone to know your secret. Why would you? Some things are just too good to share.”

“No, I’m dead serious,” he responded. “I don’t think this thing has been touched since you started lurking around back here. I can’t believe there’s still cheese in it.” He gave me a fatherly look. “You probably oughta’ go to the hospital, Bri. How much of this have you had?”

“Sure, sure,” I chuckled and walked away. I knew he wasn’t going to let me into his inner cooking circle.

Walking back home I reflected on Mort Friedberg and his nacho cheese sauce and how lucky we are to have him in Lankville. Think about it– this man takes the time and loving care to make such a beautiful sauce only to shove it into a distant corner of a store for people like me to find. The searchers, the real foodies, the ones who will go the extra mile (or aisle) to find culinary masterpieces. Now that I let “the cat out of the bag” I’m sure many readers will be heading over to try this pleasure (just avoid Interstate 71 at all costs) but I am also sure Mr. Friedberg will step up his game. Until next time keep your mind and mouth open to new ideas.

HAPPY EATING,
BRI