Scrambled or Over Easy?

He hated it when the egg stuck to the bottom of the pan. Especially when he used a non-stick pan and sprayed stuff inside. The stainless steel spatula most likely cost more than his van, and had yet to remedy the egg-sticking-to-pan situation. Glancing down, he could still see a thin layer of batter and baking soda that had lodged within the grate between the tiles.

In his nervousness and rush to get breakfast ready before Ash and Spencer made it downstairs, he had dropped half the bowl onto the floor, bumping the back of his head on the counter in the process. Growing more and more annoyed with his pathetic cooking skills, he turned off the burner and thrust the pan of eggs onto the counter.

Aside from a few burnt pieces, breakfast looked pretty damn good. The kitchen was enormous and it took Dodger about ten minutes to locate the condiments pantry, hoping the Carlins had syrup somewhere.

A creaking sound above him grabbed his attention, his heart fluttering knowing that one of the girls was up and walking around, soon to notice the smell of his culinary creation and perhaps head downstairs. At this point in time, Dodger felt it best to avoid any thoughts of last night and pretend he had just endured an evening of mind-blowing sex with two hot, big-booby coeds, who spent many hours pulling each other’s hair, and scratching one another’s eyes out, for a piece of Dodger meat.

Sighing, he touched the tip of his finger to a piece of egg that had jumped ship from the pan, and placed it to his tongue. The ceiling creaked once again. The house was ominously quiet, the soft ticking of a living room clock the only noise filtering throughout the downstairs area.

He scowled, glancing up at the ceiling again, wondering if he should venture up to make sure everyone was all right. Running a hand through his unruly fro, Dodger’s mind painfully backtracked to a scene from last night’s horror film, where Spencer sat on the tile, hyperventilating, only to shove her face back into the toilet to vomit again. She had puked for three hours.

Dodge shuffled away from the hot stove, removing his jacket so his skin could breathe. His mother had been a nurse when he was growing up and had brought he and his brother to work with her one day as she made her rounds at the county hospital. Dodger had hovered back near the door, not wanting to enter any of the rooms, her brother practically sitting on each patient’s lap, his mouth full of grin and drool, glancing excitedly back and forth from the patient and his mother as she performed the necessary routine.