Moe adjusted the uncomfortably tight bow tie, tilted his head to find a more comfortable angle, flashed a grin at the stern-faced restaurant manager, grabbed the tray of appetizers, and joined the other waiters hired for the buffet amid a loud cheer, “Remember, no food and drink for staff!”
Moe smirked slyly – sure, don't eat and you'd collapse from hunger. He hadn't had a proper meal since yesterday, aside from swiping a strawberry cake from a random passerby and a small cup of crappy coffee, proudly called a latte for some weird reason.
It was on him; there was no need for the customer to complain to the McDonald’s cashier about slow service. What slow service? His order was handled promptly, and the queue of cars behind him hadn't even started honking. Moe regretted grabbing his order hastily, wishing he had waited for something more substantial. For Moe, dessert only counted after a hearty serving of meat or fish, at the very least. Without the income from his now-lost part-time job, managing his metabolism, which craved a steady and nutrient-rich diet, would likely be a challenge.
His stomach roared an unmelodic roulade, and Moe gently patted it with his free hand. He attempted to breathe through his mouth to avoid the enticing aromas of the appetizers and avert his gaze from the tray as he made his way down the narrow corridor to the hall—just a bit more, do not look.
The golden rule of serving hors d'oeuvres dictated- never step into the hall with a half empty tray, as keen observers might notice the void in the perfectly arranged rows, leaving you without earnings. His neck betrayed him by leaning forward, his head, inflated by the aroma of the delicacies despite his mouth-breathing attempt, drew nearer and nearer to the tray. Moe, on the verge of almost nose-diving into the tray, straightened up right at the entrance to the hall, cursing everything under the sun- his rebellious metabolism, the affluent individuals for whom the appetizers were intended, and himself for not mastering the art of budgeting.
He navigated the hall with a veneer of impeccable politeness, weaving through the hushed conversations of the party guests. Whenever he sensed even a subtle interest, he would pause and present the tray with utmost deference. However, his attention was divided, keeping a close eye on the diminishing supply of small canapés adorned with salmon caviar and a pink mousse. As soon as the tray dipped below half-full, Moe gracefully retraced his steps down the corridor, the tray still extended towards the well-groomed hands reaching out, involuntarily swallowing in anticipation.
He slipped into the hallway when there were only three canapés left on the tray, swiftly tossed them into his mouth, and swallowed them almost without chewing. To his capacious stomach, capable of accommodating incredible volumes, such petite offerings were like a drop in the ocean, but he had no choice.
Moe rushed eagerly to the service area where another tray awaited him. He flashed a smile at the manager, who scrutinized his face, searching for any traces of pilfered snacks. Finding none, as the canapés effortlessly made their way past Moe's lips and into his mouth, Moe grabbed a tray adorned with green balls and glided gracefully into the corridor. From there, he proceeded into the hall, planning to circulate around the venue following the same strategy, but from the opposite side. Although the green concoction on the tray wasn't very popular with guests, Moe, automatically counting the number of bowls taken, realized that its appearance left much to be desired. Though it shouldn’t taste bad—after all, the restaurant had earned three Michelin stars for its delectable dishes rather than their aesthetic appeal. The initial trio of canapés had been nothing short of fucking divine.
This time, Moe had to navigate the hall for a longer period—green ball enthusiasts were scarce. Having a hollow stomach, Moe condemned each step, so he attempted to divert his attention by observing the guests.
As always, the scene unfolded with its usual cast of characters- the aesthetically pleasing people and those less so, adorned in their customary posh and stylish attire. The attractive individuals, in their usual fashion, accompanied those less attractive, often bearing the marks of time, life's challenges, and stress. They undoubtedly possessed more than just a hollow existence. Exceptions existed, albeit infrequently- a handful of couples seamlessly complemented one another in both appearance and the haughtiness of their gaze, a telltale sign of a life elevated to the Olympian heights, complete with the resulting advantages of prestigious education, a privileged start, and a life unburdened by material concerns. Then there were the dull couples, who didn't bother to acknowledge their partners, evidently paired by their parents in a lamentable puzzle—a strategic union, they termed it, designed to prevent the family's wealth, amassed through hard work and consumption of smaller prey, from trickling into potentially perilous hands.
No couples defied the convention where the man exuding power and wealth was good-looking while his companion lacked attractiveness. Yet, the ever-curious Moe continued to scan the room—there had to be at least one, there simply had to be! Like a rare exception that proved the rule. If both individuals exchanged profound, intense gazes, oblivious to the surroundings, and the companion betrayed subtle details indicative of a middle-class background, it would be a perfect find.
A grin spread across Moe's face as he spotted such a couple- a slender, supple omega with blond hair, a fair complexion, and innocent green eyes who barely fit the "cute" descriptor. He gazed nervously at the hall filled with high society, clutching onto his macho's arm. The macho, a lively brunet with naturally dark skin and deep, ebony eyes, whispered something tender, transforming the distinct facial features into a blissfully silly expression.
"Gottcha," Moe murmured to himself, glancing at the tray and realizing he had nearly forgotten about the food. With only five balls left, Moe, feigning a politely indifferent expression, strolled down the hallway without attempting to offer them to anyone. They had had enough; he knew the balls would find their way to the guest who needed them most.
They could cut down on their calorie intake anyway; most likely, they were already dealing with salt deposits, arterial cholesterol plaques, and digestive issues. They should spare five measly balls for Moe, who had no health concerns whatsoever. At least physical ones- after all, deep inside everyone is a psycho.
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The balls proved to be as expected—absolutely divine. They burst on his tongue in a spicy-cheese-spinach-seaweed-awesome gastronomic delight. Moe chewed them thoughtfully, savoring each bite and sip, wiped his lips with his cuff, as he did after canapés, and briskly walked to the service area—still not enough! He craved a hundred more and a rare steak. Only then could he move on from food and start indulging in drinks. He skillfully maneuvered past the restaurant manager, who was loudly reprimanding the waiter for dropping a tray full of champagne flutes.
"Do you even realize how much these cost, you clumsy idiot? Not to mention the champagne! Your entire existence isn't worth that much."
Moe glanced sympathetically at the clumsy waiter who had dropped the tray – he was the one not getting paid today, for sure. Moe picked up the tray with tiny roast beef on the thinnest waffle sheets, showcasing the dark scarlet meat in the middle. He skipped the crystal cups with shrimp cocktail – biting off the tails was too much trouble. Walking briskly toward the hall, he needed to make a small circle. Unfortunately, everyone was drawn to the roast beef, and the flattest, as if cut with a razor, scarlet, oozing with blood juice sides beckoned, forcing abundant salivation, insisting on keeping all of them for himself.
The roast beef disappeared in a matter of minutes, and a wistful Moe gazed at each scarlet side, each dark brown crust. In the corridor, he blinked resentfully at the last roast beef – it felt like a tease, just to annoy him! After a small bite, his taste buds tingled, and Moe hurried to the serving room, hopeful for an abundance of roast beef. Fortunately, the popular dish was plentiful, and Moe grabbed a tray, sensing his spirits lift. He staggered toward the hall with four-foot-long strides, intending to approach only the overly thin, those perpetually on a diet of lettuce leaves and air.
Moe remained vigilant, feigning blindness when corpulent guests approached him. He strategically approached the skinnier ones with the tray, noting that some betrayed his faith in humanity by picking up roast beef. Moving swiftly towards the corridor, he timed it to have about a third of the tray left. By the time he reached the corridor, only an eighth would remain. There was no need to unnecessarily raise poor people's blood pressure by feeding them roast beef. After all, taking care of one’s health is important. Moe rumbled contentedly down the hallway, casting a soft smile at the juicy scarlet meat. "Mmm, my preciousss… We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious.” A figure loomed in front of him, and absent-mindedly, Moe attempted to walk around it. However, the figure sidestepped, blocking the aisle, and asked ingratiatingly, “Where are you going?”
“To the kitchen, sir, “Moe replied automatically, still mesmerized by the coveted item, and locked eyes with him, reluctantly shifting his gaze from the tray.
The same blond businessman from the office was looking at him with a lazy smile, observing him calmly and somewhat mockingly. In his gray eyes, there was a cheerful understanding of Moe's motives for retreating with his loot into the corridor. The businessman adopted a comfortable stance, exuding the delightful sea breeze-scented pheromone, suggesting that he wasn’t going to allow Mo to pass through. Slowly, he raised his hand, hovering over the tray, and choosing the most appetizing piece of roast beef. The act seemed like a subtle retaliation for Moe's earlier gesture, and Moe hummed in understanding, attempting not to reveal his irritation. Maintaining a neutrally indifferent expression, he involuntarily watched the long, well-groomed fingers hover over one roast beef and then another, without actually taking any.
“You're a waiter too, huh?” the asshole grinned unabashedly.
“I can be anybody if the money is right," Moe said with a frown, starting to get annoyed. “Do you want the roast beef, or do I have to stand here forever?”
“What if I want to savor and enjoy every bite slowly?” he raised his eyebrows innocently, feigning ignorance of Moe's irritation. “Last time I checked, guests can indulge as much as they desire, no restrictions.”
“Then dig in," Moe said with a sly smile. “Don't just linger. Can't be that tough to make a choice, right?”
“It's a tough call," he confessed, letting out a deep sigh as if genuinely troubled by the decision. “They all seem equally appealing and mouth-watering, but I'm convinced one of them must be superior. That's how it goes in life, don't you agree?”
“Not really, I am not picky”," Moe shifted impatiently from foot to foot and proposed, bidding farewell to the roast beef – other waiters were busy serving different appetizers, indicating the roast beef round was over, "Take the entire tray, and I'll be on my way."
“You'd rather enjoy them yourself, huh?" The intrusive pest took a cocktail pick, casually impaled the roast beef, extracting the meat juices with a piercing move, and enticingly presented it to Moe's lips. "My treat, so you can indulge without any unpleasant repercussions. Go ahead.”
“Fuck off," Moe snapped, clenching his jaw, even though the enticing aroma of the roast beef the man held near his nose tempted him to take a bite. “Eat it yourself," he avoided the man and proceeded toward the corridor, but the man called out to him imperiously, “Stop. I am not done yet.”
“Listen," Moe halted but didn't face him, waving his free hand dismissively. “You might be used to bossing people around, but that won't fly with me, got it? If you want, go ahead and complain about me. I couldn't care less about this gig; I can find another one. But I won't eat from your hands. Got it?”
“I got it," the man stood up in front of him once more and deftly thrust the roast beef into the talking mouth, a slyly swift movement that left the skewer between his traitorous teeth. Moe snorted in annoyance, but chewed compliantly, savoring the saliva reacting to the gastronomic delight in his mouth. The peculiar blond man observed Moe's chewing with fascination, his eyes misting over, his expression began to appear somewhat silly, as if Moe's chewing had suddenly made him more attractive – what a weirdo.
Moe swallowed and walked silently toward the corridor, hearing hurried footsteps behind him, and exploded already behind the protective cover of the drapes when the man grew in front of him again, preventing him from passing, “What’s the fuck, sicko?”
“We've are all sick, one way or another," he remarked, holding onto the tray tightly. “I'm Einar. What’s your name??
“Call me whatever you like, I don’t care," Moe shifted to the side with the tray, but Einar took a step too, refusing to release it. “What do you want from me?”
“Dig in, no one else will notice except me, and I'll claim I forced you to finish it all. The party attendees have privileges.”
“Fine, what the…" Moe conceded, grabbed two roast beefs simultaneously, tossed them into his mouth, and mumbled with his mouth full, "Happy now?”
“Yes. When was the last time you ate?” Einar leaned against the wall, observing as Moe swiftly devoured the remaining pieces.
“None of your business," Moe swallowed the last of the roast beef and slipped past him toward the serving area.
“I'll be right here waiting," Einar said as Moe was striding towards the service area, and Moe groaned irritably. What did the rich guy want from him? So what if he gave him a middle finger? Moe freely shared those with anyone who needed them. He didn't reserve them just for this idiot, and the idiot must have seen plenty in his life, one hundred percent sure Moe's wasn't the first one.