Emporium*

(note: it would help to imagine a Muzak version of this playing in the background)

"I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Have we met before? I swear-"

"Yeah, sorta," the eerily anomalous woman cuts him off, "I used to come here regularly during high school, but it's been a few years at least."

"I figured as much. I'm pretty good with faces, especially with customers."

"So," Chad interjects from over at the soft drink station, "did she look any better back in high school?"

To this, Darrel Zuniga is drawing a blank. Beyond vague recollections, he's got nothing to work with, so he says "About the same, more or less. Don't remember any taped-up fingers, though."

"It's just a diversion, really," the woman states, again examining her fingers with lax admiration. "It was either this, or take a shower, so..." She then shrugs and asks for a Big Grab bag of Cheetos. "Better make it two. I'll need something to, you know," she says, pausing briefly to wag an open hand at no one in particular, "ease the pain inflicted by the lack of Frank's Red Hot."

"Three bags," Chad commands as he's mixing Sprite with Mountain Dew.

The tray is getting pretty full now, and Darrel instructs Nina to rearrange things before adding the Cheetos, so she lays the cookie on top of the BLT, stacks the Funyuns, places three bags of Cheetos upon the tray, and has her wrist clasped firmly by the woman. Darrel's first instinct is to say or do something about it, but Nina seems to be in no pain, and honestly, any additional stress is going to make him shit his pants. And they're spending nearly thirty dollars! So he waits.

"Maybe I was better looking back then, maybe not. Life is beautiful, beauty is pain. Blah, blah, blah. No one cares. More importantly, and don't be shy about this, take a look at the Modern Prometheus over there, acting like Sprite mixed in with Mountain Dew is the Blood of Christ and shit. O-kay, now he's scowling, and seriously, Chad, that's like staring into a sphincter that's been stuffed with uncooked bacon, so chug that hillbilly piss and chill out for a second. Relax. Now let's assume the Elephant Man here attended high school back in, like, 1987 or thereabouts, 'cause he's gotta be pushing thirty-five, I'd say. Do you think he was this ugly during high school? I mean, is it a timeless thing, like fine art, or is it more like a pizza -minus a slice, I suppose- that's been sitting out in the hot sun for three weeks, worsening as time passes?"

Nina looks at the woman, then at Darrel, who's staring at Cynthia, who is purposely glancing at no one whatsoever, focusing instead upon a fallen mop. Darrel's looking to Cynthia for moral support or something, but knows that as the proprietor of Mr. Z's Sandwich Emporium, it's his responsibility to deal with troublesome customers even if, given the peculiarly unsettling circumstances, he'd rather not.

"Umm..." he begins, gripped by uncertainty, and hasn't the foggiest idea how to proceed. The big one's agitated, the thin one's apathetic, the woman's acidic, and the three of them seem to be abject delinquents of the highest order.

Still clasping Nina's wrist in one hand, the woman rotates the bill of her cap to a forthright position with the other, pulling the hat down low so that her eyes and nose are obscured. A enigmatic grin is all that remains, as if the Cheshire Cat were making a super-secret-unwanted-mystery-guest appearance. "I empathize with your hesitation, I do," she says, still smiling, "but Falcor the Fuck Dragon there grows ever so impatient as we speak. In other words, an answer of some kind is required."

"I'm...I'm not sure what you're asking me," Nina stammers apprehensively.

"Has that bulbous heap of fecal matter always been this ugly, or is it something he's been working toward? Don't think hard, don't think fast. Just indulge me, someone."

Nina's beginning to sweat, Darrel notes, and he's not far behind. He listens to the one called Chad slowly chew ice from his cup. Darrel quickly steals a glance toward the monstrosity and, assuming it were possible, the crunching of ice makes the man all the more frightening. The beast known as Chad's eyes are both steady and searing, and they're focused upon the three employees.

The skeletal guy, referred to as Todd, tinkers with the Dr. Pepper dispenser as the uncomfortable silence continues. From what Darrel can gather, the syrup has run out, and he's sorely tempted to go fix that problem for the next forty minutes or so. But the captain goes down with the ship, right?

"If you're asking me," Cynthia begins, her voice low and slow due to uncertainty, "I think," pausing again, as if to second guess her response, "that he's as handsome now as he'd ever need to be."

Chad folds his massive arms, saying nothing, and the look on his face has yet to change.

"An unexpected response, to say the very least," Todd notes. He then folds his arms as well in a gesture of stern disapproval for the beverage station, shaking his head in the process.

"Quite. And without much prodding to boot." The woman sounds as if she's mildly impressed, or perhaps amused. "But was it any good?"

"Didn't say it had to be," Chad thinks aloud, and the disconcerting woman lazily raises her cap before replying.

"Killjoy," she sighs, even though there's still a hint of decrepit glee present in her voice and on her face. "Alright, I never said it had to be an awesome response, and to be candid, it wasn't too shabby, either. But still."

"She says I'm handsome."

Again, a moment of awkward silence ensues. The woman relinquishes her hold upon Nina's wrist, to which the teenager reflexively tucks both hands behind her waist in response.

"We've got a lot of dead air here, my friend," taunts Todd.

"Yeah, but c'mon, I mean, he's blowing my mind with this shit!" the woman snaps back in a fit of mock hostility. She extracts numerous crumpled bills from the front pockets of her jeans, and after unfolding each one of them for closer inspection, finally decides upon a hundred-dollar bill printed in 2001.

"I apologize, but... It's store policy to accept nothing bigger than a twenty," Darrel Zuniga explains sheepishly as he struggles to reclaim mastery of his unruly bowels.

"Don't be like that, Mr. Z," the woman coos, and Darrel relents, because the sooner these freaks pay, the sooner they'll leave.

(and that's that, but me knowing me, and you knowing you, you kinda thought something terrible was gonna happen.)

* This post was inspired by kittens.