Hamletti Hooftop and Petunia. The evils of rhyming addiction. Unknown meats. An unlikely flirtation.

The men in pig hats showed up, again, right before closing. He might just have to push his close to four, depending on how his lunch plans went.

The pig hats weren’t made out of actual pig heads, thank goodness, but fashioned out of a plush material, a bright pink, and surprising clean. The same couldn’t be said for their leather jerkins and plaid breeches. They wore very large boots, not unlike Kaixo’s, though these were stained in filth.

They weren’t all men. There was one very large woman there, with big meaty arms, though her face was clean and rather pretty, compared to the sullen scowls of the men around her. The strange collection of pig hats filled the entryway, and there were so many of them, Shivaun would have to work overtime to keep the place cool.

The pig hatted retinue parted, to allow their obvious mistress to pass. She was a very petite woman with dirty blond hair streaked with gray. She had a very pointed nose, foxlike, and wrinkles around her eyes. Yes, she was older, and yet she seemed ageless, her skin a ruddy pink color. Good coloring was important. However, it clashed a little with her very formal pink gown, with white lacy strings that connected her sleeves to her white lacey gloves.

“I come to pass my judgement on thee. To judge you fair and drastically. How have you come to trespass so daring? Are you a villain or simply past caring?”

It was nearly iambic pentameter, and that might have been a happy accident, but the rhymes were purposeful.

He was being visited by another Braggadorio, and he knew exactly which one. He was tired after his long day, but also intrigued by the possibility of wordplay. Betty wasn’t around to tease him, and Theovanni was taking a nap upstairs.

Shivaun was there, though, keeping the place cool, though she remained hidden for obvious reasons.

Sal had to grin. “Oh wait, madam, you speak words so pretty. You must be the Port Poet so winsome and witty.” His own rhyming came surprisingly easy. Had he really just said that?

The big woman’s face fell open into a kind of dopey grin. “Mistress Laureate, he did the rhyming and the words, Miss Laureate. He did what you do! He did. He did!”

The Pork Poet frowned. “Unexpected.”

She didn’t rhyme that word.

She seemed to take a fresh grip on herself, shook off her surprise, and continued. “Oh right, Petunia, how right you are. He is a poet come from afar. He comes to town to serve us in meals. In a place, he is borrowing, in a place that he steals.”

The grammar wasn’t right, and the rhyme was forced, and she knew it. That frown deepened.

If Sal wanted to get ahead, and make his café more than mediocre, he had to play this just right. He couldn’t show her up. “I do love poetry. I am Sal Fang. I think your given name is Hamletti Hooftop, though your sobriquet is Letti, to those closest to you. I will refer to you as the Mistress Laureate, the grand madam of chops, the sultaness of sausage, the Pork Poet.”

The Pork Poet’s words came out in an angry splash. “You dither, my dear, you dither and squirm. I asked you a question that you’ve not answered, you worm. You reside in a place that is dear to my heart. You trespass where my great great grandpa practiced his art. His culinary magic, he practiced a lot. His pans were his poetry, and he danced with his pots. While speech is my canvas and words are my paint, my dear past ancestor Tony Belly you ain’t.”

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Again, she was working very hard to keep up her rhyming game. Was this an effort to intimidate him?

Sal acted cowed. “I do adore listening to you, Mistress Laureate, and I wish I could match your elevated wordplay. Alas, I cannot, and I shall not try. Suffice to say, circumstances forced me to take refuge in your great-grandfather’s restaurant. The ghosts tried to kill me, not your ancestor, mind you, but others.” He left out the part of Tony Belly trying to exile him with his stink. “The governor found me here, took pity on me, and gave me the deed, and it is my grandest wish to restore it to your great great grandfather’s high standards. In fact, I will be serving his gnocchi recipe, in honor of him.”

The petite woman blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it.

Was she trying to come up with a rhyme for gnocchi? Or was she shocked by his story? It could be it was a bit of both.

“Oh, break me open, I’m so surprised. To think you have spoken to one who died. You say the right words, but words are my art. I know you hide something deep in your heart.”

The big woman chuckled. “That was a good one, Mistress Laureate.”

“Thank you, Petunia.”

Sal was surprised by the name. The big, muscled woman looked more like a Patricia than a Petunia.

The Pork Poet snapped her fingers. “Listen now, I will drop my verse. You have done well to survive the curse.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “That one was by accident, I assure you. News is spreading of your café and what you do.” Another sigh. “Old habits die hard. But enough!”

She yelled it, and Sal jumped a bit. All of this was so strange. He expected the Pig Hats to start smashing up the place, maybe go back into his kitchen to confiscate all of his sausage. They didn’t.

Hamletti Hooftop pointed a finger at him. “You, mysterious stranger, come upon our shore, trespassing in this sacred place for sure. This is your warning, this is my threat. Remember, remember, and don’t forget. If you be villain, or if you be clod, or if you’re a servant enslaved to a god. We will be watching, we will know. If the quality of your food is bad, then you’ll go.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, sighing once more. ‘In short, it is by mine own charity that you remain, and you will not besmirch this place’s good name. There will be a price, lo, a stiff tax will be required. And you will pay it or else you’ll be fired.”

Here it was, the shakedown. She might talk in rhyming verse, but in the end, she was simply a crime lord with her hand out. And he would be forced to fill it on pain of death.

Sal decided to ignore that for now. “Wait, before we talk business, I have a more culinary inquiry to make. Where has the bacon gone? There was bacon, in time memorial, to fill the bellies of the hungry pedestrian.”

Hamletti squinted at him. “Is this a joke you are making? Using such an imaginative word as bacon.”

Sal found himself feeling old and behind the times. What had happened to the beloved king of breakfast meats? That slice of fatty meat known as bacon? “What do you do now with your pork bellies?”

She shrugged. “We toss them away, every day, as is s our way.” She closed her eyes, and titled her head, obviously disappointed in herself. She was hopelessly addicted to rhyming.

“I will buy your pork bellies,” he said quickly. “Do you have a smokehouse?”

“That I do,” she said agreeably. She then clamped her mouth shut, so she wouldn’t accidentally fall into another poem.

“I can show you how to treat the meat, and for this service, I will pay dearly. This will save me and your family’s café, clearly. For you see, avoiding the rhyme isn’t done easily.”

Her eyes softened, even as they filled with tears. She blinked them away and hardened herself again. “Your meter was off. Pork bellies are greasy, so greasy, and would make your customers queasy.” A smile flashed on her face. “That one I chose, for queasy is a delicious word. I find you very interesting, Sal Fang, and yes, I know your name, for across the city it rang, like bells upon a cold morn, offering a cool place to eat, and for people to meet, away from the street.”

She laughed, somewhat bitterly. “To give into the rhyme is a glee, even as it tortures me.”

“Near rhyme,” Sal pointed out with a friendly little smile.

Suddenly, they both were laughing, and exchanging glances, and Sal found himself a bit shocked that he was flirting with a bloodthirsty Braggadorio who had come to fleece him for money. Instead, they set up a time for him to go to the pork yards and show her the cut of meat he wanted and how to cure it.

There was still the mystery of why bacon had fallen out of favor, but Sal would figure that out in time. In the end, it turned out to be another sin of the Church of the Sacra Famiglia.