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The eating man would watch as person after person streamed in, his coffee drunk and cereal devoured. Then, slowly, he would reach into his mouth with his index finger. A few moments later and he would huck a gobbet of crimson saliva, the colour starkly contrasting against the white of the table. Using the same finger, he would reach down and begin to write, the liquid drying quickly into a rusty coat. 

[h3][color=9e0b0f]She tore out my tongue.

Red triangle on her shirt.

She did that too. --->

I'm going to wait until staff return.

You're welcome to stay with me.

Call me Mute, I guess.[/color][/h3]

Once or twice the man- Mute, would pause to hock another splatter of his 'ink,' but when it was done he would clear his throat noisily, and gesture towards it, taking a step back. What else was there to really say?