A razor thin cloud sliced across the flat face of the full moon. Surrounded by half done tables, Kay was tallying the night’s take. A W shaped shadow shaded the moon. Kay’s pupils dilated and her muscles tensed. Freida placed reassuring hands on shoulders. Her eyes followed her girlfriend’s stare.

“Go chica, I got this but be careful,” Freida whispered and discreetly patted Kay’s bottom.

In a louder voice, Freida encouraged the cleanup staffers to hurry and the first round at Sneaky Pete’s was on her. Kay slipped into the night camouflaged by her employees’ cheers.

“Can you grab the case of sodas out of the back,” Darla called from the driveway. “Roger! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”

A mysterious blue gray fog rolled in. A masked figure in midnight blue leather full body suit with thigh high boots, a sinewy cape, and strangest of all a prim white frilly apron stood on their porch.

Naturally Darla screamed dropping two bags of groceries. Roger ran outside, looked up, and then he screamed. The masked figure leapt from the porch roof into a tight somersault and landed feet first on their loaf of bread.

“Who the hell are you?” Roger shouted, hiding slightly behind his wife.

“I am Waitress Woman. The avenging angel of aggrieved servers, the nemesis of rude customers, and those that don’t tip call me retribution. You owe Nisha P. of Sunny Sides Up, $42.69.”

The couple looked around uncomfortably.

“We are originally from Europe and they don’t—“ Darla said nervously.

“You’re in America now next!” Waitress Woman gave a vicious kick to their low-fat milk.

The carton splashed against the iron jockey lawn statue.

Wiping droplets from his face, Roger shouted, “I will have you know I’m a youth pastor and our congregation is a valued customer of that fine establishment.”

“You ever hear of the PTL Club? That stands for Preachers Tip Less. Church groups notoriously take up huge amounts of restaurant real estate for longer periods of the time than the heathens, order more free refills and complimentary breadsticks, running their servers back and forth with special requests. You know your bible group averaged four drinks per person, Miss Mary pretends to be allergic to everything, Miss Martha always spills something, and Miss Eveline stuffs her purse with everything not nailed down. Nisha gave you great service and you gave her a goose egg,” Waitress Woman said spiking a ripe peach into the side of Darla’s car.

“That’s her job and she gets paid—“ Darla broke off when a can of tuna whizzed past her head.

“Nisha gets paid $2.13 an hour,” Waitress Woman growled, crushing a carton of eggs under her boots as she stepped into the quaking couple’s personal space. “Now her restaurant could mandate an automatic gratuity for large parties. Hell restaurants could pay a living wage but what let’s not hold our breath on that. So what’s it gonna be Jim and Tammy Faye?”

The caped crusader cracked her knuckles. They dove for their wallets. Waitress Woman made exact change from her frilly apron, leapt on the hood of their car, and shot a grappling hook in to the neighbor’s tree.

“You know your name is kind of redundant. Waitress is feminine,” Darla snapped.

“Good tip.” Waitress Woman sailed back into the moonlit night her apron in the wind always ready to serve justice.