Welcome to PalmGhetto.

All you want is to get to Rally's to
get a few of those 69 cent cheese burgers in you.

Then you could woolf 'em down before your break is over. Hopefully without an 'incident' breaking out. Not likely.

Welcome to PalmGhetto.

First, you must realize that you if you want the '69 cent' cheeseburgers advertised on the Rally's Sign, you must ask for the '69 cent version' of the cheeseburgers.

Or you do not get the '69 cent' cheeseburgers. You get the 99 cent cheeseburgers. This same philosophy applies to getting the 69 cent shake or the '69 cent' hot dog.

"You want the 69 cent version of the cheeseburgers?" Inquires the ubiquitous Mexican fast food employee. All employees are Mexican at fast food restaurants in PalmGhetto, in compliance with city ordinances.

"Um...ya...I guess." By now you will have regretted your decision to get the 69 cent burger. You will wonder what the non-69 cent version of the "same as far as anyone can tell" cheeseburger is.

"I suppose they don't funnel any of their biological juices into the buns." You think to yourself.

Conveniently located accross from the puerile spitting cashier at the second of Rally's/Checkers famous "walk up windows" is one of the native species of PalmGhetto's White Trash. Teen boy/girl couple.

Teen boy/girl couple are joined together in a sort of conspicuously pre-coitus poise. Hands run from buttocks to back. Legs are intertwined. Tongues dart.

You are able to admire the view of her slender legs and backside because girl distracts boy from his otherwise vigilant eye-patrol of all things "his" by the carefully constructed force of her hands. Hands which pull and tugg at his head creating a managed choreography where once was there was once only youthful incompetence.

You take your time enjoying their display as it appears the show is for you and because the workers at Rally's "We call it Checkers in Florida" are both slow in service and incompetent in filling orders.

That is until some nimrod drives by and shouts "FAAAAAAG!"

This gets the attention of the pimpled yet so obviously hetero boy. He breaks the lustful embrace of his soon-to-be 'Baby's-Mama' and in an evolutionary ironic instant is firmly ensconced in the stereotypical stance of Fight-or-flight.

You then see his his hands go searching for something in his back pocket. And within the instant of the item's appearance you gleam forth its identity. A knife. The young man has drawn forth a knife.

Meanwhile; the hoodlum who was screaming epithets while driving his Ford truck, has dashed away-merrily offering up both his middle fingers in a ritual farewell salute.

You; however, are going nowhere. You cannot get away. You can just stand there hypnotized by the glimpse of metal darting back and forth around the young teen in a primitive pantomime of West Side Story.

You see, you still have an order to receive. It is ony then with cheeseburger in hand that you can attempt your getaway.

And it is only during your getaway that you are able to discern that the boy has not chosen to wield a switchblade, nor even the pedestrian pick of pilferers everywhere the common pocket knife.

But instead he has ineptly chosen to defend his honor with his mother's steak knife. That's right, when not cutting Macaroni and Cheese or slicing through Salisbury Steak the humble steak knife is the trusty sidekick to any Real ASS Kicking which might go down in the PalmGhetto.