First day of THE RUNNERS QUEST!

A runner. You could be running free around the gym before your long, painful workout, just like you love to, but for many more reasons than one you are the other kind of runner, the one that got stuck in the back of a restaurant in front of a mountain of dishes.

And you swear they must fuck when you aren't looking because they just keep and keep on coming, and with hands as big as yours it takes some extra time to clean their tiny offspring while making sure you don't obliterate them into one thousand million pieces. After all, you are three meters tall.

You suddenly agree that there are enough dishes done to last well into the night, after all runners have plenty of tasks and you should be ready when the shitstorm hits, since the other runner didn’t show up today and you think she/he or whateverthefuckasdasdas might not come back at all. And they couldn’t replace it. You wonder just how the fuck could that happen when there are so many choices.
There’s still some time, at least, the big moves usually starts at 21 and right now the backwards digital clock in the kitchen marks 20:12, or so it seems.

You are alone. So, what will it be?

>there are no choices in this quest, just try to endure the shitstorm any way you can think of.
>post with most replies wins

>there are no choices in this quest, just try to endure the shitstorm any way you can think of.

God dammit fine.

>Check the kitchen; we need some white and black bread in that oven, and the chef may have forgotten the pizza bread again.
>We have enough spoons this time right? You don't want to serve icecream with a fork again.
>Check the bar in the saloon, and ask if there's something they may be missing. It may.

There you go, fresh and warm choices.

>Other
Contemplate why the fuck am I three meters tall. That's almost 10 foot.
>Check the kitchen; we need some white and black bread in that oven, and the chef may have forgotten the pizza bread again.
Seems like the most important.

You are reminded how much your head hurts after bumping it again with the top of the main kitchen door, the side chef looks away not before you catch a broad smile on his face and some muffled laughing coming from near the oven. You ignore it, instead staring at the mirror in the back of the kichen, behind the back of your fully plate-armored chef, one big, big man, with some big muscles, is staring at you intently over a poorly shaved beard. Crouching. He looks a bit sad.

A shiny blue light from inside the helmet catches your deep, meaningful frown. He keeps on reading the menu.

“What?” You stare at him, the high-pitched, childish voice reminding you there’s no easy way out of this one. You ignore him and check the oven; no bread in it.

You check the second room of the kitchen to the left, a big room where the dishes are washed and theres a big table almost on the corner, where the bread should be right now. They either were busy or fucking forgotten. You don’t care. You stroll to the freezer room, open the door, crouch your way in (not without bumping your head on the way in) and freeze your bones until you finally get the bread out, take it to the oven, and put them inside one by one.

>Am I forgetting anything?
>Saloon
>Spoons. Not this shit again. Not on my turf.

>Other
Recall if our parents are humans or if a giant abducted and knocked up a girl. Is our dick proportional to our stature? Is it a foot and a half long?

>Spoons. Not this shit again. Not on my turf.
We are already comically sized, don't want to make ourselves look like a goof when we serve ice cream with a fork. Runners gotta have a rep to keep. Assuming being a runner means being an errand boy.

The saloon has a high roof, high enough for you to stand comfortably, and even trough it does have lamps and decorations at this point your head easily remembers where each and every one of them is on his own. There are very few customers right now, but you don't let that deceive you; they will come, in many shapes and forms, in many shoes. You sigh a little and head to the bathroom. There won't be time for this later.

It isn’t deserted. One of the waiters, an odd configuration of rocks just floating around an orbit is cleaning some strange, blue substance on the floor. You just motion him to move aside a bit and he complies; but when you undo your zipper and let the great beast fall downto do your business you notice a tiny rock floating around your arm and you quickly catch it. The rock-man freezes, and from the rock in your hand you notice a red, gory-looking eye blinking at you. Can’t blame them; you just let it go, and the door quickly closes behind you.

While you are at it, for some reason you are drawn to remember your parents, and how they coped with the hardships of you being tall as ultrafuck with stride, it almost makes you smile. You wonder if a giant raped your mother. You think your father would have noticed. And you remember about the spoons.

And back in the runners lobby (the passage between the kitchen and the saloon) oh behold lo and below the wonders of the land, NO SPOONS

>Ask the kitchen.
>Check for spoons in the saloon.
>Ask the bar.
>Ask the manager. You’d really rather not do that.
>Ask the waiters.

>Check for spoons in the saloon.
>Ask the bar.
Aren't they the same thing? Anyways lets try talking to some people as to why this damn place is so unprepared. It's like they just hired a new manager from a fucking university. The prissy "overqualified" know it all kind.

The bar is in the saloon, but it's is own domain. The saloon in itself is the big deal, where the waiters are, and they usually keep some forks, knifes, spoons and such hidden in places where they could get them should they need them; basically, they hog them. Furthermore:

You know better than to ask the waiters for cutlery, so you stroll trough the saloon as elegantdly as you can manage checking some old spots they like to use; but as it seems you have been outwitted this time, as stated by the cheeky look of one of the waiters gives you, a 19 year old boy that’s been here for two months already. “Not to worry my friend” you think to yourself, “there will be time for this” as you walk as fast as you can to the bar with little hope and less joy.

The barman immediatedly stares at you with a smile from side to side; a tall, elegant negro man with three arms on each side, each the same size. You can almost see your frown in his shining white teeth, below his happy glare and his long, wide, rhasta hair. “How can I be of assistance to my dear man Hrifa?” You ponder.

>”My friend, we are missing spoons again.”
>Just away about the restaurant; old stuff, new stuff, bad stuff.
>”He comin in today?” You never know, and this is good to know.

You stare at the wall; the fancy, rectangular clock tells you it's almost 20:30.

>”My friend, we are missing spoons again.”
We are an errand boy with an objective. And by god will we finish that objective. We're gonna give these peasant the most decent ice cream they'll ever have with the best service they'll ever experience.

He quickly checks around and under the bar; you don’t question his speed or his way of searching, Umo has been here for 6 years already and knows the bar hardly a bit less than he knows about dealing with drunk people. You and Lua will never forget that time, ever since then happy smiles spoke you a little since they make you wonder what could be underneath; when he comes up he isn’t smiling, and your frown worsens. “I am sorry… look at my man all alone the worst day of the week, and all I can do is give him a mojito.” He smiles; you smile too. It doesn’t solve the problem, but a good mood can’t hurt you think to yourself. You didn’t trust Umo when you did your first day six months ago; that until Mi Abass told you those mojitos came straight out of his paycheck.

You feel a warm hand gripping on two of your fingers, and you turn around slowly, very slowly just in case.

A young looking woman stares at your eyes smiling, without flinching or saying a word; a slim metallic bandana covering her forehead, with the word “Try” buried under her blond and black hair. This is your own old game, and you always lose because you end up blushing, but you feel you’ve been getting better.

This time she loses; you feel some small force pushing your fingers forward, and when you comply you find yourself following Mi Abass trough the saloon until she reaches an empty table, one of those with two sofas clutched against a wall and the table inbetween, then she slides between the table and one of the sofas like she was going to sit; you don’t really understand what happens then but she comes back with something covered in a rag, slowly hands it to you, nods and leaves without saying a single word. You notice the metallic clash when you shake your hand a bit. God dammit.

>This might not be enough. Let’s talk to the manager. Or maybe not. Well maybe I should.
>Check the runner’s lobby. There might be something missing. There’s ALWAYS something missing.
>Take a deep breath, and relax. Talk to people. Unwind. You feel your head heavy, maybe a coffee.

You notice a wandering customer strolling by with his girlfriend; it's like the fake Rolex is grinning at you and whispering "20:50, motherfucker".

>Check the runner’s lobby. There might be something missing. There’s ALWAYS something missing.

>>Check the runner’s lobby. There might be something missing. There’s ALWAYS something missing.
And you wish there was an exception to the rule but wishful thinking and luck hide a dagger in their back with your name of it. Or maybe a spoon with your name of it. Fuck them, you wander back quickly to runner’s lobby and recheck the whole inventoire.
Apperitives: Check.
Pepper: Check.
Handkerchiefs for dishing: Check.
Mayonnaise dips: Check, and cooling.
Grated cheese: Too damn few oh FOR FUCK SA
Salt: Check.
Small dishes for coffee: Check, maybe a bit too many.
Detergent: Check.
Sponge: Missing. Must be buried under the dishes.
Dips for refilling: Few.
Grated cheese dips: Check.

Mojito was a nice try and you feel grateful and full of rage.

>Try to refill everything as fast as I can.
>I don't think these spoons will suffice but fuck them, let the waiters learn to share.
>Take a deep breath, and relax. Talk to people. Unwind. You feel your head heavy, maybe a coffee. Maybe two.

>Try to refill everything as fast as I can.
>I don't think these spoons will suffice but fuck them, let the waiters learn to share.

You rush inside and almost scream atop of your lungs "CHEESE" to quell the cacophony of insults and screaming that the kitchen requires to sustain yourself, and are quickly rewarded with a big parmesan cheese to the face. You would scream thanks to that armor if you could, but you can't and you know you shouldn't when you turn your head and the backwards clock in the kitchen marks 20:55. You grate that cheese like it had your daughter stuck under it, screaming atop of her tiny lungs for you to save her; it takes you less than a minute to obliterate it, and you know it won't be enough for the night. You dig with might, fury and utter caution trough the dishes to find the missing sponge scared of your own strengh, while recalling in your head the missing runner's small fingers with seething rage; and you don't find it. You take a quick run to the kitchen again, bumping your head again and death-glaring the side chef and easely find the dips.

And you let yourself give in. You don't want to think about the clock. You don't want to think about the spoons, the cheese, the shitstorm you will have to face single-handedly.

As the clock slowly and finnally makes its tick on the 21:00 mark, you aren't thinking. You aren't ready.

Quest continues tomorrow at 16:00. Gl hf!