You shouldn't admit that to yourself, and certainly not aloud. You won't, but idiocy is what makes you chuckle, nope, more like a cachinnation, but whatever. It's cool. So you mutter "Where would you head if trouble were coming?" and four souls heed your call, including you.
"Where?" Steph inquires, and you glance away from your Big Grab of Flamin' Hot Cheetos to catch her fucking with a dispenser knob, pouring Blueberry Slurpee into a nonexistent cup. From behind the sanctity of the checkout counter, Preston (cashier extraordinaire) states that Steph will have to pay for a cup, even if she's just running the machine. His name is Preston Podaril, but people refer to him as Pillsbury because he likes to chew on toothpicks like he pioneered the very act. Pillsbury is a bit pudgy, too, but not in that fat bastard kind of way. Steph is going to pay for something, yeah, but probably not for the Slurpee; she'll just buy a Mounds bar and they'll call it even. You paid for the Cheetos, so you're cool. That you've been ogling a bean burrito notwithstanding, you're inclined to pay for stuff. Whatever, pt. 2.
"Here, this place" you say, shrugging your shoulders haphazardly. Schumacher tells you to shut the fuck up as he eyes the rack of porno mags, but that's just his way. He doesn't really want it to be quiet, because moments of silence honestly seem to cause him unbearable pain. Bet you didn't know that underneath that brutish exterior, he's a softy for walks on the beach. Beneath that studded leather jacket and the meat hook nestled within its folds, he's a sentimentalist with a penchant for bukkake videos, Hustler magazine, and dealing cocaine. Such things won't matter in a bit, but that's neither here nor there.
Pillsbury snickers in disbelief, and if you didn't know better, you'd say that there were three toothpicks dangling from his lips. "I'd stay behind this counter, baby!" he jeers, because he thinks that he's got it made, that portly fuck. Chances are that he'd like to fuck you, in the ass most likely, but then again, wouldn't you enjoy screwing yourself in the ass? You can't blame him, even if he is a douche bag. Foxy whatever, phase three.
You shut him down by modifying your initial query as "Where would you head, if you were a customer?" Steph's moved on to free espresso at this juncture, and her wild bush of blonde hair kinda pisses you off, just because it's there, and just because it's no longer 1988. This is tonight, after all. Schumacher gently unwraps a granola bar and says something about the lack of necessity. Pillsbury sneers at you, and doesn't ask Josh 'the hook' Schumacher to pay for the merch. You wish you could recollect how much money Preston owes Josh for blow.
Steph informs you that it's three in the morning, and nothing bad, let alone exciting, happens around here -this 7-Eleven, this city, this state- at night, and you respond by munching on a few more fiery snacks. You're gazing out the window, past the neon haze, at a pair of automobiles, neither of which is your own, parked at the Aldi's lot across the street, but not really; instead, you're watching him, no fuck that, you're viewing what he's doing, and what he'll proceed to do, shortly.
Betwixt a rusted white import and a Ford Aerostar (and you'd recognize an Aerostar anywhere, ever since Brian Grimm tipped his over while driving, as you sat in the passenger seat) he merely stands, arms outstretching progressively toward each respective car. You're too far away to hear anything, but when each of his gaunt hands tear a door from its steely mooring, you needn't be a prodigy to ascertain his intentions. His movements are so comically readable.
"Like I was saying," you mumble as you begin to shift with considerable speed, 'if trouble were coming, I'd head to the Shazam machine.* That thing is a brick, for Christ's sake.' As you begin to take refuge behind the mammoth block, Steph takes a sip of her coffee and asks if you need some cash. It's cool.
A Frozen Decapitated Deer
* Also known as an automated teller machine, for those cultured folks.