That bundle of glory that is Middle America’s home for fine dining. Hollis sits across from Remo in a booth toward the back, a location Hollis has selected so he can view all entry and exit points as well as keep a good line of sight on the kitchen. Just in case some fucker decides to come out blazing. A table tent separates the two of them, proudly displaying a dizzying array of colorful drinks and towering dessert options, all for reasonable prices. Rarely is there this much tension at a Chili’s, but there’s been nothing but stares and uncomfortable silence between them since they sat down. Remo can’t take it anymore, opens up the conversation by saying, “I can't begin to describe how much this means to—” Hollis can’t take it either. “Asshole . . .” Hollis stops while a young waitress drops off a plate of appetizers with zero zest for life. When the abruptly delivered plate stops sliding, Hollis continues. “I haven't agreed to a damn thing. Now, what are you proposing here?”
