The Octopus left Todd's apartment, a black scarf wrapped around its center mass.
In the cold, its breath looked angry: plumes of steam puffing as it loped down the sidewalk, a wad of cash wrapped in an arm.
The Octopus shook the snow off its tentacles before loping up to the counter. The ancient Indian man behind the counter scratched under his turban with a pencil. The music was very up tempo, full of synthesized sitars and a simple tabla machine beat.
"Help you?" The ancient Indian man asked The Octopus, who carefully opened a take out menu and pointed to the samosas.
The Octopus nodded.
The Octopus tapped the counter six times.
"Six samosas or six orders?"
The Octopus held up two arms.
"Two? Second? Orders?"
The Octopus nodded and blinked rapidly.
"Twenty minutes, okay?"
The Octopus nodded and blinked rapidly again.
The ancient Indian man disappeared behind a warped, stains-and-white door.
The Octopus loped over to the waiting area and carefully plocked onto a heavy plastic chair. It suckered up a magazine from the floor, leafed slowly through it.
No one else came in, it was 9:35pm on a Tuesday evening.
The Samosas came in a large brown bag, lined with tin foil. The chutneys were in there, too, two large plastic containers with sauce rubbing on the samosas.