Pink Top City Shorts: A Day at Danny Donger's

Pink Top City Shorts: A Day at Danny Donger’s

Fabien stepped into Danny Donger’s and clocked in. He adjusted his server pouch around his waist, tugging slightly at the hems of his bright green hot pants. He checked his reflection in the smudged mirror in the backroom.

Fabien approached Janine Fleming, the hostess.

Janine: “There are three customers at table four, Fabien.”

She told him.

Fabien: “You got it.”

He replied smoothly, flashing a smile, and grabbing a tray.

Stepping out onto the polished wooden floor, Fabien glided between tables with the relaxed confidence of someone walking along a beach in flip-flops. He knew the drill. Danny Donger’s was one of the rowdiest sports bars in Pink Top City, built on a simple recipe: icy cold beer, piping hot wings, and a male waitstaff clad in short-shorts and white calf socks.

He wove past a glowing Corona Extra parrot sign and slid up to table four, where three tired-looking businessmen in loose suits were loosening their ties.

Fabien: “Evening, gents… Anything to take the edge off?”

He asked.

Businessman: “Two pitchers of Glacier Lite, man. Rough day at the office. We also want two baskets of hot wings.”

He sighed, taking in Fabien’s appearance and attire.

Fabien: “Got it. I’ll get it out before you can complain about your boss.”

He quipped, writing down the ticket with a click of his pen.

He sauntered over to the bar, tapping the counter to get the bartender’s attention. As two frothing mugs were placed on his tray, Fabien glanced toward the front entrance. The neon “OPEN” sign flickered against the darkening glass outside.

Usually, around this time, a flash of bright neon green hair and a heavy leather jacket would saunter through those doors. Celeste liked to drop by early in his shift to sit at the bar, sip a Dr. Pepper, and check out the view. She’d lean on her elbows, admire his legs with a mischievous grin, and ask if he needed her to “protect him from the tippers.”

But not tonight. Celeste was working on something for Jackie-babe with Trevor, which meant Fabien was on his own for the full six-hour stretch.

“Reona to Fabien!” a gravelly voice barked from the pass-through window.

Fabien looked over at Sal, the kitchen’s grizzled, veteran line cook. Sal was a burly black man built like a brick wall, with a thick gray handlebar mustache that was permanently stained around the edges from cheap cigars. A sweat-soaked paper chef’s cap sat crookedly over his hair, and his grease-splattered apron hung loose over a faded, sleeveless tank top that proudly showcased a pair of faded navy tattoos on his massive forearms.

Sal slid a heavy plate of dripping hot wings forward with a thick, calloused hand. Fabien turned to Sal, snapping out of his daze.

Sal: “Where were you, boy?! Here’s your order!”

He yelled from the pass-through window, sliding another heavy plate of wings forward.

Fabien: “Got it, Sal.”

He replied, placing the wings on his tray and hoisting it high over his shoulder. He took a breath, pushed away from the kitchen window, and stepped back into the lively, neon-lit floor.

After dropping off the wings and beer to the three businessmen, Fabien scanned the floor and noticed a new arrival sitting alone at a cozy booth under the Pink Top City Dolphins sign. It was an older gentleman in his late fifties—impeccably groomed with silvered hair at the temples, wearing a sharp, tailored sports coat that screamed money.

Fabien smoothed down his white hair and glided over.

Fabien: “Good evening, sir.”

He said with a charming smile.

Fabien: “Welcome to Danny Donger’s. My name is Fabien. What can I get for you?”

The older man slowly looked up, his eyes lingering on Fabien’s green hot pants before trailing up his bare chest, stopping to admire the green beaded necklace, and finally meeting his eyes. An amused, appreciative grin spread across the man’s face.

Older Man: “Well, now…”

He drawled smoothly, resting his chin in his hand.

Older Man: “I was just going to order a gin and tonic, but seeing you standing there, I think I’m suddenly in the mood for something a lot sweeter. Looking at the service around here, I might just have to stick around for dinner.”

Fabien didn’t miss a beat. Working at Danny Donger’s meant dealing with flirty patrons was practically part of the job, and he handled it with effortless poise.

Fabien: “Well, would that reason be me?”

He chuckled playfully, clicking his pen. The older man smiled.

Fabien: “If you’re going to stay a while, I recommend the grand slam platter.”

The man laughed warmly.

Older Man: “Okay, darling. I’ll take a gin and tonic for now. And feel free to take your time bringing it back... I quite enjoy the view from here.”

Fabien beamed.

Older Man: “I’ll take your word for it.”

He replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he held Fabien’s gaze.

Older Man: “Though I have a feeling anything you bring over to this table is going to be good, son. What’s your name again?”

Fabien: “Fabien.”

He offered smoothly, shifting the empty tray under his arm.

Older Man: “Arthur.”

He replied, extending a hand. Fabien shook it with a firm, polite grip.

Arthur: “Well, Fabien, you keep the cold drinks coming, and I’ll make sure it's worth your while on the tip. Deal?”

Fabien: “Deal.”

He winked, giving a light nod before turning back toward the bar.

Fabien: “I’ll give you a few minutes with the menu, Arthur.”

He stated and headed back to the bar to ask the bartender for a gin and tonic.

~

While Fabien was grabbing another round of draft beers from the bar, table eight—near the jukebox—was getting louder by the minute. A group of guys in their mid-twenties were halfway through a pitcher, arguing over who was taking home the fantasy football trophy that season.

Fabien balanced the fresh pitcher in one hand and a stack of clean glasses in the other, weaving through the crowded aisle.

Fabien: “All right fellas, who’s ready for a refill?”

He asked, stepping up to the edge of the table with his usual easygoing smile.

Man: “Right here, man! Save my life!”

He laughed, reaching back blind over his shoulder to point toward his empty mug. In his eagerness to grab his glass, the guy swung his arm around without looking. His hand swept right across Fabien’s bare tummy, his fingers lightly brushing across his stomach.

The unexpected, feather-light tickle caught Fabien completely off guard. A sudden laugh burst out of him, and his torso instinctively twitched back, his shoulders jumping as he barely managed to keep the heavy pitcher of beer perfectly level.

Fabien: “HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!”

Man: “Whoa—sorry about that, man!”

He gasped, spinning around in his chair, his eyes wide with apology when he realized he’d just accidentally tickled his waiter’s stomach.

Man: “My bad, I didn't mean to grab at you like that!”

Fabien let out a genuine, breathless laugh, setting the pitcher safely down in the middle of the table before taking a step back to catch his breath. He rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing slightly with amused embarrassment.

Fabien: “Hahahahaha, no worries!”

He chuckled, waving his hand.

The whole table erupted into laughter, throwing a few good-natured jabs at their friend for his awkward move.

Man: “I owe you a bigger tip for nearly causing a disaster.”

He laughed, shaking his head and pouring himself a glass.

Fabien: “Hey, I’m good with that!”

He winked. He placed a few fresh napkins on the table.

Fabien: “Enjoy the beer, guys.”

~

The late-night crowd at Danny Donger’s was always a little looser, especially over in the lounge section near the neon Pink Top City Dolphins sign. Fabien was sliding a tray of fresh craft draft beers onto a crowded booth table, where a rowdy group of regulars was celebrating a birthday.

Fabien: “Here we go, gents—fresh pitch and a round of cold ones.”

He announced, leaning over slightly to clear away a few empty glasses.

One of the guys at the end of the booth—a charismatic guy in a denim jacket named Greg—grinned, having overheard the commotion from Table Eight earlier.

Greg: “Hey, Fabien, rumor travels fast around here.”

He teased, leaning out from the vinyl seat. Before Fabien could react, Greg reached out with two hands and playfully poked and wiggled his fingers over Fabien's tummy.

Greg: “Just double-checking if the rumors about you being ticklish are true!”

Fabien: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEHEHEHEHEHEY!”

Fabien instantly doubled over with a loud, ringing burst of laughter, squeaking out a sharp laugh as he twisted his torso away, frantically pulling his tray up against his chest like a shield. His knees buckled slightly, his green sneakers sliding on the floor as he kicked back out of arm’s reach, his face turning bright red from the sudden attack.

Fabien: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!”

Fabien wheezed, catching his breath with a huge, irrepressible grin while holding one hand over his stomach to protect it. The whole booth dissolved into roaring laughter, clapping and cheering at Greg’s successful tickle attack.

Greg: “All right, all right!”

He laughed, holding his hands up in peace and handing a twenty-dollar bill to Fabien. Fabien’s eyes lit up.

Greg: “You’re a good sport, Fab.”

Fabien rubbed his stomach, still chuckling as his cheeks cooled down.

Fabien: “And you’re all terrible to me.”

He teased.

~

Fabien slid into a dark vinyl booth near the back bar. He rested his head back against the cushion, closed his eyes, and just let out a long breath.

“Long night, huh?” a voice called out.

Fabien opened one eye. It was Julian Ashbourne, a handsome, sharp-dressed guy in his late twenties who was a frequent late-night regular at the bar. He had stayed behind after last call to finish off his final glass of Glacier Lite while Gary tallied up the registers.

Fabien: “You have no idea.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his white hair.

Fabien: “I hate wearing sneakers.”

Julian leaned against the wooden pillar next to the booth, looking down at Fabien’s feet with a sly, amused smile. He set his empty glass down on a coaster.

Julian: “Well, after watching Greg tickle your tummy, I have to ask…”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk spreading across his face.

Julian: “Are your feet as ticklish as your tummy, or is that a totally different story?”

Fabien’s eyes widened slightly, and he immediately pulled his knees back a few inches, a nervous laugh escaping his lips.

Fabien: “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He warned playfully, pointing a finger at him. Julian held up both hands in mock defense, laughing as he backed away.

Julian: “Hey, just a simple question! Good to know the vulnerability list is growing, though.”

Fabien clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. He waved his hand at Julian.

Fabien: “Fuck off out of here.”

He grinned, shaking his head.

Fabien: “See you tomorrow, man.”

Julian: “Tell you what…”

He said, leaning forward with a playful smirk.

Julian: “One hundred bucks. Cold, hard cash. All you gotta do is slide off those green sneakers and socks right now so I can test the theory.”

Fabien stared at the one-hundred-dollar bill, resting on the wood, his eyes wide.

Fabien: “One hundred dollars?”

He repeated, his voice cracking just a tiny bit in disbelief. He looked down at his green Vans, then at the bill, then back up at Julian.

Fabien bit his lip, a battle playing out in his mind between his pride, his ticklish feet, and the prospect of an insanely easy hundred-dollar tip. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face as he shifted his weight.

Fabien didn’t hesitate for another second. He kicked off his left green sneaker, letting it thud lightly onto the floor, and swiftly unlaced the right one. With a deft pull, he peeled off his white calf socks, tucking them neatly inside the shoes.

Julian leaned over, half-expecting the usual after-shift bar waiter funk—but to his surprise, there wasn’t even a hint of an odor. His feet were impeccably clean, immaculate, and fresh with neatly trimmed nails and narrow arches, as if he’d just stepped out of a catalog rather than spent six hours working a bustling restaurant floor.

Julian looked down at them for a few long seconds, an appreciative glint in his eye, before shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

Julian: “I’ve gotta hand it to you, Fabien. About six hours on the floor in sneakers and not even a bit stinky? That might actually be worth the hundred bucks on its own.”

Fabien: “Hey, I take care of myself.”

He laughed, wiggling his toes slightly and folding his arms over his chest.

With expert precision, Julian lightly dragged his index finger straight down the arch of Fabien's right foot, barely brushing the skin. The reaction was instantaneous—and violent.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAA!”

Fabien’s knee flew up toward his chest like a snapped rubber band. He slammed into the wall, scrambling backward and barely catching himself against the edge of the table.

His feet weren't just sensitive; they were an absolute, lethal landmine of ticklishness.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!”

He wheezed, his eyes wide as saucers as he tried to plant his bare toes flat, but even the friction of the floor was making him twitch.

Julian: “Oh, it’s so over for you, sexy boy!”

He swooped in again, lightly scribbling two fingers right along the sensitive spot under Fabien’s left toes.

Fabien: “AAAAARGHHHH!!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!”

He shrieked, kicking his legs out in wild, desperate bursts as he squealed with laughter. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his white hair flying in all directions as his stomach muscles locked up from laughing so hard. He curled his toes tight, trying to protect his soles, but he was completely helpless.

Julian pulled his hands back with a triumphant grin.

Julian: “So your feet are your most sensitive spot, I see.”

Fabien collapsed back against the booth cushion, panting heavily, his face flushed as red as a cherry. He clutched his bare ankles defensively, resting his head against the wooden wall as he gasped for air.

Fabien: “Hahahahahaha, no shit, Sherlock. I never knew.”

He wheezed out, a huge, helpless smile plastered across his face. He snatched his white socks off the floor and frantically scrambled to get them back on. He then shoved his feet into his green sneakers and tied them up.

Fabien: “Amazing what you learn from a few patrons.”

He muttered dryly.

Julian: “Deal's a deal.”

He said, giving a respectful nod and holding his hands up as he backed toward the exit.

Julian: “Easiest hundred you'll make all week. Have a good night, Fabien.”

Fabien: “Night, Jul.”

He called out with a relaxed smile, slipping the bill deeper into his pouch as the front door clicked shut behind his best-tipping customer of the night.

~

The front door opened, and Fabien looked up, expecting to see his Gary locking the door. Instead, a sleek, well-dressed man in a tailored gray suit—one of the late-night regulars—stepped toward the bar. His name was Alastair Bloodworth, a wealthy stockbroker who frequented the bar and always tipped high on top-shelf scotch.

Fabien: “I thought we were closing up, Al.”

He teased with a friendly, relaxed smile.

Fabien: “I think Gary’s in the back office tallying up the registers.”

Alastair: “I know.”

He replied, leaning his elbows on the laminate counter. He looked Fabien over—taking in the bare chest, the iconic green hot pants, and the easygoing aura Fabien radiated effortlessly.

Alastair: “I stayed back for a minute because I wanted to ask you something directly, Fabien. No middleman.”

Fabien: “What’s up? I’m all ears.”

He chuckled, leaning against the tap handles.

Alastair reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek leather wallet. Without taking his eyes off Fabien, he slid out five crisp, brand-new $100 bills. He laid them flat on the dark wood of the bar, fanning them out like a winning hand of poker.

Fabien glanced down at the green bills. Five hundred dollars was a serious chunk of change—more than two full weeks of back-breaking shifts behind the bar.

Alastair: "I like to cut straight to the point..."

He said smoothly, tapping his index finger on the stack.

Alastair: “I’ll give you five hundred dollars in cold, hard cash right now… if you go into the back room, hand over the underwear you’ve been wearing under those green shorts all shift, and walk away.”

Fabien blinked, taking a half-step back as a breathless, incredulous laugh burst out of him. He ran a hand through his white hair, looking from the small fortune on the counter back up to Alastair’s unblinking, serious expression.

Fabien: “Five-hundred dollars, huh?”

He smiled, shaking his head.

Fabien: “For my underwear?”

Alastair: “Five hundred.”

He affirmed, sliding the stack an inch closer.

Alastair: “Right here. Right now. You’re a handsome guy, Fabien, and let’s just say I appreciate a rare souvenir from a place like this.”

Fabien tapped his fingers against his hip, weighing the absurdity of the situation against the sheer practical power of five hundred dollars. He thought about the groceries, his favorite vinyl records, marijuana, and how hard Celeste would laugh when he told her about the absolute absurdity of this situation. It was weird, sure, but completely harmless—and entirely too lucrative to pass up.

Fabien: “Al, you’re… a bad boy…”

He chuckled softly, a playful smirk breaking across his face as he reached out and scooped the crisp stack of bills off the bar, tucking them directly into his server pouch. Alastair grinned at him, shivering all over hearing that. Fabien paused and bit his bottom lip.

Fabien: “Give me two minutes.”

With a paper bag clutched in his hand, Fabien turned and stepped through the swinging wooden doors, passed through the employee break room, and headed straight into the bathroom. After unbuckling his server pouch, he slid down his hot pants and briefs to pull his legs free. He then placed his underwear inside the bag before pulling his hot pants back on.

Holding the bag containing the worn briefs carefully in one hand, Fabien pushed back through the swinging doors into the dim dining room. Alastair was still standing at the bar, waiting patiently. Fabien walked over, set the folded garment on the counter, and slid it toward him.

Fabien: “Here you go, happy to oblige. Now go home and let the magic happen.”

He grinned casually, folding his arms across his bare chest.

Alastair picked them up, tucked them neatly into an inside pocket of his suit jacket without hesitation, and offered Fabien a sleek, appreciative nod.

Alastair: “Pleasure doing business with you, Fabien. You’re a very accommodating young man.”

He said, his tone smooth and satisfied.

Fabien: “Hey, for five hundred bucks, I’d be a fool to say no.”

He winked, tossing his server pouch over his shoulder.

Fabien: “Have a good night, Al.”

Alastair turned and let himself out into the warm summer night. Fabien stood alone in the dim glow of the remaining exit lights, checking his pouch one last time. Between the tips, Julian’s tickling fee, and Alastair’s outrageous souvenir purchase, he had made nearly seven hundred dollars in a single shift. Shaking his head in quiet disbelief and chuckling to himself, he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the night to tell Celeste about the wild evening he’d just had.

There’s never a dull moment at Danny Donger’s, he thought.