House of Breakfast

“My boots were filled with water,” Reggie started in his thick, Australian accent.
“Bovine fecal matter.” I said from behind the counter. I was making an effort not to curse in front of the kids. The children ignored me as the story started up again.
“It was rainin’ so ‘ard, the valley was filled with wa’er! Suddenly, the gila monster from earlier that day led me to a cave on ‘igher groun’.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t listen, kids, he’s never been to any Spanish-speaking country.” I rolled my eyes.
“Course not, then I’d be away from ya maverlous coffee, and uncanny ‘abit of interruptin’ me at the most impor’ant part of the story.” He turned to the counter to finish his half-eaten pancakes.
I looked up when the bell over the door started to ring. I didn’t recognize the face, which was odd, because the last stranger we’d had in Timothy County was Reggie. And that was over 10 years ago.
“I’m looking for Philip Finnegan. Otherwise known as ‘Peddlin’ Phil’.” The backs of everyone in the restaurant stiffened.

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