Bon was already in a mood long before anyone walked through the door.

He stood behind the front counter of Bon’s Burgers, arms crossed, tapping one foot with the rapid impatience of someone who believed the world existed solely to inconvenience him. A half-finished burger sat on the register next to him — his own, of course — because Bon refused to eat any food that wasn’t made under his name.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbled to himself, flicking his ears back sharply. “I tell Boozoo to mop the floor and suddenly he’s ‘too busy performing.’ What part of ‘YOU mop’ sounds like a suggestion? I swear, if one more employee tries to unionize, I’m throwing myself into the fryer.”

He straightened his tie — or rather, yanked it angrily until it was crooked — then smoothed his ears with the same faux sophistication he used in commercials. A deep breath. A smirk. The façade returning.

“There we go. Professional. Handsome. Managerial.”

He practiced a smile. It cracked. He tried again. Still awful.

He sighed dramatically and slumped over the counter.

“I should be running a multinational empire by now,” he declared to the empty dining room. “LOOK at me. I radiate success. I ooze charisma.”