Conversation · Rhetoric

All right, this is how we're gonna do it:

"I admire your handiwork,chéf, but there are a few things I'd do differently."

"Like what, officer?" His eyes rest on the sandwich. "This is as good as they come in Revachol, I assure you."

An array of delicious recipes flashes through your mind. Salads... Salmon... Sandwiches. Bingo!

This calls for an engineering angle. Structural rigidity, exposed rafters, lattice-works -- that type of approach.

Lattice-works? Like Lettuce-works? I see what you did there. Don't ever do that again.

"The bread you built this wonder on, could have been toasted beforehand."

"That would certainly have been an improvement."

Beautiful, now bring it home with paprika.

"I'll do you one better -- the air pocket between cheese and ham could house pre-roasted paprika."

"Ce serait délicieux! he shouts excitedly. "Can you make that sandwich, officer?"

No problem, you just need his for research and development first. Just as a prototype of course. Stall now and the sandwich is forever lost.

"No. No one can." (Gaze at the distance, slowly shaking your head.)

"Wait... But I thought..." The old-timer, visibly disappointed, pockets the sandwich and sighs. "I'd really like to get back to the game now, if there isn't anything else?"

"Sure, but I'm going to need yours as a prototype first."

"I hope you are not just tricking an old man out of the little he has left." He says solemnly and hands you his sandwich.

"I... I win...?"

"Ee... okay, sure sure," he quiets you. "Everybody wins, but is there anything I can help you with right now to speed up the process?"

"Initial development takes time of course, but in six to nine months you will eat 'The Sandwich of Gods'."

"Or god of sandwiches maybe?" he tries to pitch in. "But in the meanwhile, what can I do for you here and now officer?"

"Don't worry, about it." (Give him a wink.)

"Ee... okay, sure sure, I'm not worried. We're here all the time. Every day. Impossible to miss us, officer."

He looks worried.

"Is there anything I can do for you right now?" he asks. "Maybe to speed the whole process up a bit?"

"Had you put a large slice of Olduvaian cheese crosswise from the ham, it would minimize the component loss via crumbling."

"Mon dieu, that is an excellent idea!" he exclaims. "That would virtually negate the component loss."

"How is your back, Gaston?" (Tap on the side of your nose and point to the sandwich.) "Is it... jerky?"

"Well yes, I mean... uh... no need to..." He raises his arms to signal you to stop. "I'm not sure I understand what's happening here, officer."

He knows exactly what's going on.

Point to the sandwich in silence.

He nods, understanding the finality of the situation, and hands you the sandwich. "Please... just take it slowly. Give her the attention she deserves."

The old man nods and turns away from you.

And now we both walk away and everybody lives.

"I got a keen eye and it's telling me this sandwich is gonna destroy your back."

"Oh..." he looks down for the longest time. "You're right of course, officer. It can't be good for my health. Please, take it off my hands."

"Just give me the damn sandwich, so I don't have to explain."

"I understand the situation," he says quietly and hands you the sandwich. "Please... just take it slowly. Give her the attention she deserves."

Sorry, but at this point, all that's left to do is beg and hope for the best. Beg like you've never begged before.

I'm not gonna beg.

It's probably for the best. People don't like beggars.

"Please, please, just PLEASE let me have the sandwich, Gaston!"

"No, officer." The culinary genius shakes his head with unexpected resolve. "Please let it go, It's making me really uncomfortable."

A man so principled about his sandwich calls for a principled approach. Time to get political.

I'm already tripping knee-deep in politics, baby.

You really do. Now, unleash the fury!

"Back to police-mode." (Smile and nod.) "I have some questions, Gaston."

"Alright." The jolly man smiles. "Let's hear them, officer."

"This city's going to shit. Sooner or later some foreign anarchist is gonna steal your sandwich. That's a fact."

"What the hell are you talking about? What foreign anarchist?" the lieutenant asks, confused.

No time to bring him in. Just keep your eyes on the prize and ignore him.

"Eh... I don't think that's gonna happen." He chuckles. "Why would you even...?"

"Cause that's how foreigners are, Gaston. They won't stop 'till you have nothing left."

"He won't care." The old veteran glances at his partner. "As long as there's food in his fat belly, he'll lick any boot that's kicking it to him..."

Good, René's on board too -- time to take back the streets. Right-wing populism, here we come!

"Revachol is calling -- she needs us. Not tomorrow, not soon, but right now. Let's take our home back."

"Now you are talking sense, son." His eyes light up. "All three of us, working as a group -- we can make a difference."

Whatever you're selling there -- he's buying it. In bulk.

"I'm actually already a member in a group tasked to keep the streets safe," the lieutenant marks. "You are too. We call ourselves The Police."

"Men, let's review and, possibly, redistribute our resources." (Continue.)

"What do you mean, officer?" There's a look of suspicion is his eyes.