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Rest After Service
I scream in the Walk In
I scream in the Walk In
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$28.00 USD
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$28.00 USD
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Meet Cassandra, FOH phantom and patron saint of the rage-chilled. Cass started slinging pies at a greasy family joint when she was fifteen. Burned through four managers, two failed health inspections, and countless plates of chicken parm nobody ever finished.
She’s the one they called to calm down the Karens and bail out the clueless barbacks. But when the rage swelled — a guest snapping fingers, a chef yelling “RUN THIS FOOD!” while plating garbage — she slipped behind the walk-in door.
Inside, among wilting lettuce and half-empty sauce buckets, Cass lets her lungs rip. No guests. No bosses. Just the hum of compressors and her raw, unapologetic scream slicing through the frost. She comes out smiling, a touch calmer, a little more dead behind the eyes — but ready to keep serving with grace and grit.
Wear this. Be Cass. Scream if you need to. Then walk back out and nail that next round
Throw it on for the morning rush. Peel it off after last call and a whiskey or three. Heavy enough to say: you outlasted the chaos.
Pure cotton, thick enough to soak up spilled drinks and hush last night’s bad decisions.
Seams that don’t give. A fit that moves but never slouches.
Cut by rough hands. Worn by the servers and bartenders who never clock out, ever.
For the walk-in chill or a whiskey wind-down — heavy enough to say you made it.
100% cotton (grey’s a mutt, but faithful).
Thick to beat fryer smoke and regret.
Tough seams. Honest fit.
Made by workers. Worn by lifers.
She’s the one they called to calm down the Karens and bail out the clueless barbacks. But when the rage swelled — a guest snapping fingers, a chef yelling “RUN THIS FOOD!” while plating garbage — she slipped behind the walk-in door.
Inside, among wilting lettuce and half-empty sauce buckets, Cass lets her lungs rip. No guests. No bosses. Just the hum of compressors and her raw, unapologetic scream slicing through the frost. She comes out smiling, a touch calmer, a little more dead behind the eyes — but ready to keep serving with grace and grit.
Wear this. Be Cass. Scream if you need to. Then walk back out and nail that next round
Throw it on for the morning rush. Peel it off after last call and a whiskey or three. Heavy enough to say: you outlasted the chaos.
Pure cotton, thick enough to soak up spilled drinks and hush last night’s bad decisions.
Seams that don’t give. A fit that moves but never slouches.
Cut by rough hands. Worn by the servers and bartenders who never clock out, ever.
For the walk-in chill or a whiskey wind-down — heavy enough to say you made it.
100% cotton (grey’s a mutt, but faithful).
Thick to beat fryer smoke and regret.
Tough seams. Honest fit.
Made by workers. Worn by lifers.
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