To the victor goes the laurel, a crown of radicchio
There was trouble down at the Marquis de Sade Soup and Salad Bar. What had started as a typical evening of dining and fantasy, turned foul. A group of regulars sat at their table, enjoying the earthly delights.

"Take this piece of roughage, you naughty, haughty girl."

"Oh daddy, show me you carrot all."

"You irascible, foolish man, suck on these cruxiform vegetables. Then you can clean my dirty bowl."

At this point, a group of drunk suburbanites wandered in off the street. They were loud, gesturing and pointing. This was to be expected on the weekends, when the place served pizza and featured a piano player with a straw hat and a handle bar mustache. But this was not their night. This was the night of pain and verdure pleasure.

Attention turned to the invaders who began to make a big show of doing lettuce shots off each other. The amount of fury this unleashed at the other table where sat the experienced endorphin explorers was barely to be fathomed. Rudy, the lad who freshened up the produce, and took copius amount of nightly abuse from the patrons, stood by impassively, dressed in a valet outfit purposefully 2 sizes too small.

The Count Valcour, whose specialty was making lattes by day and humilation at night, murmured, "Look at them, so tan and laughing. Where do they think they are, Club Med?"

Katerina, the automutilator, hissed with her mock-Russian accent, "If they are truly aspirants, they should go through the proper channels of submitting themselves to the local ruling oligarchy. And, please, there should be a dress code. There is not a single piece of leather, chain, or latex."

The Count spoke first, yelling across the room in the interlopers' direction, "Listen up, you poseurs. Any enjoyment is weakened when shared, so why don't you climb back in your SUVs and head back over to Missionary Positionary California, or wherever it is you slinked out of, you human stoats." He turned back to a pesto pasta salad punctuated with organic cherry tomatoes.

The outsiders snorted and drooled Sin Regrette Vinaigrette from their mouths, showing themselves to be lowclass. This only served to further infuriate our inveterate degenerates.

Juliette Oubliette, masochiste, who had been pursuing a state of zen-like calm produced by soaking her hand in a bowl of hot minestrone, intoned, "We may seem hard because we are capable of strong feelings, and, sometimes we go to rather extreme lengths," she looked around at her comrades-at-harm, "but only because we feel more strongly than others." This brought a hearty local response. The Count doffed his hat with his striking cane. Katerina cracked a rare smile.

"Rudy, you dog, come hence immediately!" shouted the Lady Chamille Hysteria, dominatrix.

"Yes?" He stumbled to the table. "Shall I take your plates?"

"Rudy! That's 'Yes, mistress,' you larva." She rose and took Rudy by his shoulders, shoving him to his knees.

"Yes, mistress." He lowered his eyes.

"Why don't you show those ignorant subhumans to the door?" She dipped her vinyl-gloved finger in Raunch Dressing and painted Rudy's nose.

"I can't." Rudy looked as though he was about to cry, which was nothing new. He always shook.

"Rudy, there is no such word. If you don't perform this act, you will be subject to unimaginable humiliations and tortures." She placed a stalk of broccoli behind each of his ears.

He burst into tears. "I can not, Mistress. I am so sorry. I meant to tell you later this evening."

"Speak up, Rudy." She grabbed him by the back of the head and turned his face up toward her.

"Those, those are the new owners."

The shock was immediate. The Count overturned the table, spilling the salmagundi and farrago of tender greens. He barged over to the enemy's table and demanded an explanation.

"Yeah, we own this place. As soon as the paper work is through, we're turning this little investment property into a Sports Bar. So why don't you march your clown ass out of here." The threat was clear. And the Count did what any self-respecting tyrant of indulgence would do. He laid down the gauntlet. He flicked a single radish slice in the man's beige leather face.

Laughing, the nouveau-riche bushwackers frogmarched the Count up to the salad bar and threw him in amongst the kale and ice, his face rudely immersed in Horny Honey Dijon Dressing.

After cleaning the Count and attending the wounds to his pride, they walked home, forgoing their customary cab ride. The advance guard of the prickly primrose path became reflective, even philosphical. But in the end, it was Katerina, accustomed to disappointment, who shrugged and said it best, "We could always go back to the Goth club." They all shuddered.