They sat in their customary seats, the way they had done for near eternity, a daily ritual 
which held so much unwritten significance for both men.
“I say old chap, would you be so kind as to pass the salt?”, uttered Gritmog.
“No.”, grimaced Urbid, “Salt hardens the arteries.”
Gritmog shook his head letting it hang dejectedly. He placed his leathery old hands upon 
the tall pepper grinder. How far these peppercorns had come on their journey only to be 
placed inside a glass prison. Slowly but surely the peppercorns inside succumbed to the 
dual assualt of gravity and metal, helplessly the peppercorns were shredded, silent 
screams trapped inside the grinder. Turned to a fine black dust, prepared for that final 
indignity reserved for table condiments. The last vestige of seasoning particles blew 
smoke-like through the air akin to a startled hares’ ill fated final dart for freedom from 
the poachers rip-roaring pellet.

Outside in the remants of the cold bright sunlight, across icy clear blue skies a single 
swallow swooped dementendly gobbling up insignificant insects for a tasty little meal, 
but surely it would of preferred a nice bit of bread? Maybe even toast, yet it had to make 
do with what nature had provided, bugs.

Gritmog shoogled the shaker, “Damn things clogged again!”. He slammed down the 
shaker, causing Urbid to reflexly flinch. Urbid sighed, looking around the damp dreary 
room, he could feel the stench of resignation hang heavyily above them, a now permanent 
fixture. Looking at the aged face of Gritmog, he felt the mirror of his own failed years 
that showed so clearly on the age of his dining companion. Lines written weightily in 
dissapointment and regret. Lifes of what ifs? Lifes of untaken chances.

In the dim light Urbid forked his food with lacklustre. Looking down he stared morosely 
at the steering wheel attached to his crotch. Damn thing drove him crazy. It was back in 
1924 when the accident had happened, now it felt as much a part of him as the fingers on 
his hands. Sure he got some strange looks when he walked into bars, but people didn’t 
understand, well very few of them. Too remove it now would be like amputating a leg, 
too much time had passed under the bridge. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.

Gritmog sucked his teeth, and looked longingly at the salt, noticing that Urbid had added 
a few grains of rice into the glass shaker to absorb the moisture. The grains of salt would 
surely sense this alien presence amongst their millions. Slowly they would erode it, turn it 
hard and brittle, discolour it’s clean white coat, leaving it stained like a nicotine tooth. Of 
course many individuals would be shaken free in the Great Lottery, leaving friends and 
loved one behind for pastures new, adventures that could only be dreamed of.  For once 
they left, they left for ever, never to return. 

Leaning in towards Urbid.
“The salt”, he drawled , “ if you wouldn’t mind”.
“Look, you cannot have the salt. This meal is fine, I added salt when cooking it”
Gritmog stared steelily at Urbid.
“The salt.” He tersely stated. In too many ways he needed that salt. Ways he had never 
realised until too late.
“You want the salt? Well, you can’t handle the salt!”, screamed Urbid.
Gritmog fists clenched white in anger, veins pulsed on his face, his eye popped.
Urbid rose to his feet staunchly, his this old oak legs supporting his creaking frame.
Gritmog yelled, “You want a piece of me, mofo?”, picking up the stainless steel knife, he 
hurled himself in a rage upon the helpless Urbid.
Urbid screamed in terror as the rampaging old man repeatedly scraped him with the 
butter knife, “Aaaaah, your spreading me!”. Lunging across the room he grabbed a fork 
and thrust it deep into Gritmog’s eye sending him staggering back.
Gritmog groggily sat down. How had it come to this? He imagined two backstreet 
fighting leprechauns, only fighting because that’s what there owners had bred them for. 
Valiant knee-high warriors, green, unrelenting, unafraid, unthinking and under 1m tall.
Urbid sobbed at the sight of his fallen comrade, the man who had once saved his life, and 
now it had he, TRAITOR, that had befallen his saviour. Oh woe begone ye, hath thou 
done never wrong?? Urbid watched as his friend lolled to one side, the life visibly 
flowing out of his mortal coil. Through tear streaked eyes he noticed Gritmog lips move 
faintly, he leaned close to hear the final faint whisper…

“I’m done.”