I was in Malibu of all places, some place coastal and swank, and stumbled upon a regional fast food joint that doesn't actually have a Malibu franchise, but it's a good place for a burger and my mind, even sleeping, was all "All right! Burgers!" I went in, got in line, and my eyes widened in delight when I recognized someone behnd the counter.
You'd recognize the man. I won't name names (at least not here -- notice I'm not naming the regional burger place either), but think "very recognizable, Oscar-nominated actor from film and TV." One who lives in Malibu, in fact. Turned out it was his franchise: he balanced acting with the job of feeding people, and was enthusiastic about it. He and I talked as he took my order; we brought up family and his daughters -- in real life this actor has two sons and one daughter, not two daughters -- and other things. A neat, substantial conversation, in the midst of a busy fast food restaurant, as I waited for my burger. The actor said my "rough six" was on its way. I corrected him, saying that wasn't what I ordered, but he nodded and went on to other topics but still throwing an occasional "rough six" into our talk.
I started to get confused and concerned when he said my order was ready. Outside.
It was a nice day -- aren't nice Malibu days required by law? -- as I left the restaurant. People milled about on the sidewalks, near the outdoor seating; it wasn't hidden or isolated. Cars and trucks moved in and out of the lot, nearby. A couple of teenage girls were sitting there. One of them raised her arm to signal to me, and she said a noncommital "Hey." I went over to the two of them. I asked who they were.
"We're the Rough Six," she said.
Really awful implications entered my head. I'd somehow ordered sex with teenage girls. I'd somehow ordered this from a famous actor. A famous actor pimping out daughters of his who don't exist. I could accept the idea of this famous actor running a fast food place, I could accept having a cool talk with him, but then my mind tried to get me to accept...THAT? My mind even thought of that?
My mind, to its (sort of) credit, imagined me bolting, vowing to expose the actor and the sick, sick situation. But this is one of the rare occasions where I wish my dreams weren't often so vivid and memorable. This? THE WRONG KIND OF MEMORABLE.
P.S. I went online to confirm (at least via Google -- I'm not braving the depths of Urban Dictionary) that there are no implications tied with the term "Rough Six," certainly not that kind of implication.