It's late at night and once again some patrons have triggered the curse of the C Minor Diner. They were warned not to have caffeine if taking a shortcut across the gravel way, as many nighthawk eggs had been crushed there. However, who really cares about superstitions like that? As the diner filled with panicked cheeps, the attendant reached for his fowling gun with a sigh. Chasing the Chordeiles minor mutants out would be easy, but cleaning the place up? Well, was anything pleasant in 1942?