Damn it, he thought.  Sparkles from glass twinkled at him from his noodles.  All that wasted food.  His stomach told him to eat around it.

The staff burst from the back of the restaurant, screaming as they counter attacked, their hands and feet making overly-loud swooshing sounds in the air.  Finally there was a use for the Karate art of breaking bricks by hand.  Joe stared at his ruined food stoically as young Japanese men and women shouted “Yah!” and “Ooooo-wah!” punctuated by the sharp snapping of masonry.

One woman who’s reflexes proved too slow fell against his table on the way to the floor, where she convulsed from fatal head trauma. A red gash on her temple told of where a corner of one of the Mexican jumping bricks got her.  Joe’s noodles rained upon her blood stained chest.

Joe sighed, and got up to leave.

“You did not pay!” yelled one of the Japanese men.

“I didn’t get my dinner.  She did.”  He pointed at the floor.

They were going through the dead woman’s purse as Joe pushed his way through the broken glass door, stepping out into the mayhem of the world beyond.