The CleanSweep Counterstrike

“Finally. Something besides pine trees,” Matt said, now passing farms. “There’s the sign, Wewahitchka.”

"I don’t see a place for dinner," Carling muttered, waiting for the traffic light to turn green. A sign warned, no right turns on red. "Not another vehicle in sight and here we sit, waiting." Carling tapped the steering wheel, his Morse code for irritability.

Matt looked at his phone. “According to this, two restaurants are out of business. There’s a bar-slash-restaurant, a Subway franchise, and a Chinese restaurant. I don't know,” he said, “but Chinese, in this town?"

"Bars serve booze. I vote for bar-slash-restaurant. Give me enough to drink, the food doesn't have to be gourmet."

"Turn right. It's around the corner." Matt said. “Whoa, Carling. We nearly missed it. It’s a former gas station. You can still make out the Sunoco sign.” Carling turned into the parking lot.

“Five pickups and a car,” Matt said. “You wouldn’t know it was open if it wasn’t for that neon sign.”

“That sign says AYCE shrimp or frog legs. Any idea what an AYCE shrimp is?”

“None," Matt said. “I’m not about to order frog legs, either.”