081413 #worm #roach The room does one of the things rooms do: it swirls. Fires flare up in the corners of Me's vision. Rocks melt. Salt and pepper dance. The bells on the front door clang viscerally. The wind comes in and out. It's closing time. The Cafe never closes. Right behind Me, leaning on the other side of the mutual backrest of Him and Me's booth and the next booth, a troglodyte named Barp turns around and says, Chicken.