One summer night, while the wait-staff in the restaurant were still counting their tips, I heard a “thump” against the door. I decided I ought to go check it out, and was puzzled to find nobody at the door. I stepped outside, and there wasn’t a soul in sight to any direction. I turned to go back inside, and noticed something just in my peripheral vision on the ground. Looking down, I discovered a piece of cooked pork roast, about two to three inches thick and six or seven inches across, and an accompanying greasy splat almost dead-center on the glass of the door.
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