I knew the dame was trouble the moment she stepped into my line. With three unruly tots in tow, an updo that would make Kate Gosselin swoon, and heels more spiked than the bottle of Dasani I keep under my register, it was clear this lady wanted to speak to my manager; she just didn't know why yet. Was fifty-eight greenbacks a day minus taxes really worth this?
I knew what the man wanted the moment he got in here. They all want the same damn thing. I put on my jacket, sighed, and stood up.
"Welcome to Petco" I said with a sneer.
i knew the dame was trouble from the moment she stepped into my office, which was the boiler room in a three story house share i shared with several bulgarian immigrants who had a hell of a lot more than three stories between them. "mind the drip," i said, "and i don't know why that tissue paper with weird orange stains on it is wedged into a crack in the wall. you're very attractive."
I was looking at a crime scene, just another mess on the cold floor. Indifference and calculated ignorance guided everyone else around it, careful not to get their already soiled Crocs stained with red. That was a luxury I had given up when I put on the nametag. My demons started to boil inside of me, thirsting for a justice I knew would never be found. In my white-knuckle grip, the wooden handle felt like a cudgel, a truncheon from an era where the law could beat order into this misshapen world. That was a lifetime ago, and the broken glass mixed with Italian viscera in front of me was just another in a long line of reckless lawlessness. My mouth itched for a cigarette but a voice from over head reminded me of my orders with a practiced hardness. "Clean up on isle four. Clean up on isle four."
They call me Slick McGee. I'm a con artist. I'm also a sandwich artist. You want it toasted I'm your man. You wanna know where your missing husband went? That'll cost ya extra. Chips and a drink and a holiday gift card, buy $50 and get a $10 card for yourself, and I might be able to tell you if I seen him in here with a strange lady. My boss is really on me about those gift cards.
deep dish peat moss
Throw one at me if you'd like, burger punk. I've got all five senses and I slept last night, that puts me six up on the lot of you.
"you wanna get involved with a lousy bum like me?" i growled, pinching a cigarette i had stolen from the builders' break room at work between my teeth. "forget about it, kid. my days are filled with hours i don't have and my bank account is a bounced check. now scram before you make me moodily down this shot of whiskey and bust my leisure budget wide open."
Aerosolized grease. When I think of aerosolized grease, I think of Charlene. The fine mist the splatter of boiling oil would leave slowly accumulating on every surface of the kitchen. The gleaming exterior of a perfectly fried wing. We were an unstoppable team, her on the fryer, me with the sauce. We could outpace any demand, even on Super Bowl Sunday, and management knew how we kept the place running. But Charlene flew too close to the sun on our red-hot vinegary wings of tender goodness. We had a double double sixty-four order of destiny delivered to us that fateful night.
light filters in through window blinds, casting harsh shadows, as sultry sax music plays, but it's a sultry sax cover of All I Want For Christmas Is You and the window blinds are actually the grating of the security door, closed outside the glass storefront. shop isn't open yet, but that doesn't stop a dame who spells trouble from tapping on the glass and pointing at her watch
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