Ribs, Rumors, and Rusty

Ribs, Rumors, and Rusty

On a cold winter day, I shook hands with the devil.

He smiled real nice…

Grandpappy used to say, never let the devil ride—

’cause he’ll end up wanting to drive.

Rusty shuffled into Tom and Kate’s Coffeehouse in Karorkkte, Ohio, carrying the cold in with him.

A worn brown leather jacket hung from his shoulders. His brown skin was deeply creased. It was impossible to pin his age—sixty, seventy, eighty.

He peeled off his skullcap. Gray hair lay stubbornly flattened beneath it, as if winter itself had pressed it down and forgotten about it.

The building was brown inside and out, wood everywhere. Inside, it felt more like a barn than a coffeehouse. A single cracked beam stretched across the ceiling.

Tom stood behind the counter, staring into nothing. A white T-shirt clung to his frame, revealing a sleeve tattoo that crept up his neck—the ink introducing his buzzed haircut before his face ever could.

“Semper Fi,” Tom said, nodding at the pendants on Rusty’s jacket.

“Semper Fi,” Rusty said, noticing the Marine Corps emblem on Tom’s sleeve.

Rusty leaned against the counter, fingers tapping an easy rhythm.

“I’ll take a chicory coffee,” he drawled.

Tom blinked. “A what?”

“Chicory coffee.”

“Never heard of it.”

Rusty smiled faintly. “Then gimme a regular.”

He laid a five on the counter.

Tom set down a mug and straightened, all height and ink, towering over Rusty.

“Yeah?” Tom asked.

“My change.”

“Coffee’s six bucks. You owe me a dollar.”

Rusty slid two singles onto the counter.

“Coffee that high, huh? No wonder this place is empty,” he chuckled.

Tom smirked. “Where you from?”

“New Orleans. Home of gumbo and BBQ.”

“I heard of the gumbo,” Tom said. “BBQ’s new.”

They smiled at one another.

“You own this place?” Rusty asked.

“Yep. I’m Tom. Karen was my wife.”

He wiped the counter in energetic circles.

“Karen talked me into pouring every penny into her dream. Tom & Karen’s Coffee, she’d say, ”he mimed flipping a blonde bob; “We’re gonna be Starbucks rich.”

His jaw tightened. “This shop never had a chance. Neither did the marriage.” Tom threw the towel into a water bucket.

Rusty nodded, toothpick dangling from mouth.

“Why don’t you sell BBQ?”

Tom jerked. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. BBQ in a coffee shop?”

“Ditch the coffee.”

Tom’s eyes widened. He smiled.

Rusty extended a weathered hand across the counter.

Tom’s tattooed arm met it.

They shook.

BACKYARD GRILLING

Two grills stood behind the building, glowing in the late light.

Watching Rusty cook was like watching an artist at work. His movements are slow, soulful, and deliberate.

Smoke drifted through town, holding hands. Meat sizzled, popped, and hissed, pulling people closer.

The old, barn-like coffee shop became a busy BBQ spot. The smell of smoked meat drifted out the doors to the long, hungry line outside.

Rusty hummed and shuffled as he commanded both grills—smoking oxtails sizzling on one, meaty ribs caramelizing on the other.

A lively spring breeze carried thick ribbons of barbecue smoke to a freshly painted sign nailed above the barn doors.

The sign proclaimed in bold, smoky letters: MOT’S BBQ.

Tom lingered near the doorway, scowling at his phone, his expression dark amid the happy crowd.

He read, cursed, and typed furiously.

“Using Rusty like seasoning,” Tom muttered under his breath, glancing up at Rusty and then back at his phone. “Sick of these trolls.”

Rusty didn’t look up from the grills.

“Tom,” he said calmly, “get off the internet and come learn how to put magic on this meat.”

He flipped the ribs with practiced ease.

“I won’t be around forever,” Rusty added, giving Tom a quick look.

A man and a woman slipped out of line and ducked behind the building. Tom followed, trying to shoo them off, but they were already holding up their containers, phones out.

Rusty lifted a rib with tongs. The tender meat slipped effortlessly from the bone, drawing gasps from the man and woman.

Rusty stamped his feet and spun around like a ’70s soul dancer.

All three of them blurted at once:

“Flavartenderism!”

Rusty laughed. “Granddaddy used to say flavor should kiss and tender shalt not miss.” He held up the bone. The meat slid clean off.

“Flavatendeorism.”

The couple took pictures with Rusty while Tom stood off to the side, silent.

“Would you sign our container?” the woman asked, handing him a marker.

Rusty blinked in surprise. He looked at the marker, then at the couple.

“That’s a first,” he said, grinning. He took the marker and signed the container with a small smile.

The man grinned. “Bro, you should trademark the word Flavatendeorism.”

He clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Lighten up, man.”

Tom rolled his eyes.

LIGHTS. CAMERA. ACTION.

A small camera crew set up around the backyard grills.

Johnny Lee approached the grills with the effortless poise of a seasoned influencer. Tall, lean, and bright‑smiled, he commanded attention the moment he opened his mouth.

His voice rang gleefully into the mic, carrying the weight of a review that could make or break the place.

“I’m Johnny Lee, live at Mot’s BBQ… Tom here is going to show us how the meat slides right off the bone.”

Stiffly, Tom held the meat in front of the lens.

He lifted a rib and flicked it. Nothing moved.

The meat clung as if glued. Tom’s face flushed.

Johnny Lee smiled wider. “Nice try. But my viewers want to see Rusty do it his way.” He glanced at his phone. “They say you’re using him like seasoning. Say it ain’t so, bro!”

Tom yanked off his mic and moved aside.

Rusty, radiating charisma despite his small frame, stepped into the camera’s spotlight. Rib after rib slid clean off the bone with effortless magic. As he stomped, spun, and shouted, the crowd erupted in cheers, joining Rusty.

“That’s Flavatenderism!”

Johnny Lee nodded, smiling into the camera. “Full review drops tomorrow. Thanks for having us.”

He shook Tom’s hand and leaned in. “Relax, man. He’s making you rich.”

“I’m looking forward to a great review,” Tom said stiffly.

Johnny Lee pointed at Rusty with two fingers before shaking his hand. Leaning in, he whispered, “You are a star.”

Dark was nearing. A heavy silence settled over the backyard, broken only by the harsh scraping as Tom attacked the grill with long, punishing strokes.

Rusty hummed softly as he cleaned the other grill with smooth, gentle strokes.

Johnny Lee’s crew loaded the black SUV with equipment. A group of locals swarmed Johnny Lee just as he stuck a leg inside.

“Johnny Lee! Man, I love your food reviews,” a woman said.

“Same here,” another added, lowering his voice. “But that dude Tom? Something ain’t right with him.”

A woman leaned in. “I heard he’s trying to trademark Flavatenderism.”

A guy in a hoodie shouted. “That ain’t even the worst. Folks are saying he took out a life insurance policy on Rusty. Like he tryna cash out.”

Johnny Lee smiled and signed autographs as he absorbed the information.

THE REVIEW

Tom sat at the counter, hunched over his phone, while Rusty quietly gathered seasonings and supplies for the grill.

Tom scrolled anxiously, then shouted, “Here it is!”

His jaw dropped as he stared at the screen.

“BBQ is Mouth. Rusty Owns Nothing.”

“This video is slander!"

He kept reading aloud.

“Has Tom Gone Too Far?”

“Using Rusty for clout.”

“Pay the man.”

“Won’t eat there again!”

DAYS LATER

Rusty shuffled inside, his eyes lingering on the empty sidewalk where crowds once gathered.

Tom sat slumped behind the counter, staring blankly into space. Just as he had the first day Rusty walked through the door.

"No BBQ smoke. No crowds."

Rusty draped his apron on a chair.

“You bought a coffee shop,” he said humbly. “I cooked in it. Your hard money. My hard talent.”

Tom let out a bitter laugh. His chair scraped loudly as he pushed back and began pacing.

“You ruined it,” he snapped. “They think I’m stealing from you. They think I don’t pay you. They’re mad, Rusty. Nobody’s coming back!”

“You pay me hourly,” Rusty said.

Tom’s jaw clenched. His fists curled, veins rising through the tattoos on his forearms.

“They won’t eat here till you ‘make it right,’” Rusty said softly.

Tom snapped. “Make what right?”

“Do right by me, and they'll be back.”

Tom lunged forward, face flushed and fists tight.

Rusty snatched the grill‑cleaner stick, bracing himself.

Tom’s foot slipped as he charged forward, grabbing the grill stick from Rusty. It snapped back into his face with a loud crack.

Tom crashed to the floor.

The headline traveled fast.

Owner’s Jealousy Brings Down Mot’s BBQ

Tom lay rigid in a hospital bed, his jaw wired shut and tubes threading in and out of him. Machines beeped.

Rusty shuffled in, carrying a Styrofoam cup wrapped in a cardboard sleeve.

He peeled back the lid and took a sip.

Tom’s fingers twitched.

Rusty leaned close and spoke softly.

“All this,” he said, eyes steady. “Wires. Angry customers. Hospital bill, Ruined business.”

He lifted the cup slightly.

“Started ’cause you didn’t have chicory coffee on the menu.”

Tom’s eyes darted.

Rusty straightened. “I’ll take care of you, Tom. We’ll be back bigger and better than ever.”

He grabbed Tom’s hand and raised the cup.

“Semper Fi.”

Tom coughed, “Semper Fi.