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The Great Fluorescent Cage of Commerce (Evan39)
| Mainlining The Secret Truths of My Mahchine | 11/14/24 |
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Date: November 14th, 2024 11:05 AM Author: Mainlining The Secret Truths of My Mahchine (It bumps the BOOM thread like a FRIEND Or else it gets the hose ) Tonight’s chaos began with Stanley, a semi-regular who dresses like a Civil War reenactor.
He walked in like he owns the place, dragging a muddy duffle bag behind him, and immediately set up camp in the cereal aisle. Within minutes, he was perched on an upside-down crate, holding court with a stuffed raccoon he calls General Beauregard.
I paged Tabitha. It took her about 10 minutes, which is no surprise given she is over 300 lbs.
With her usual fanfare—a grunt and a puff of powdered sugar. “Stanley,” she bellowed, “you can’t sit here. Move along or I’m calling the cops.”
Stanley stood, tipping his weather-beaten hat. “Ma’am,” he said solemnly, “the Confederacy never truly surrendered. But fear not—I’ll retreat to safer grounds.” He grabbed a family-size box of Cap’n Crunch, saluted his raccoon, and marched toward the exit. Tabitha, muttering about the “damn White Boy circus”, waddled back to her lair.
Things settled for about five minutes until Keisha decided to go on her fourth ADA break. As usual, she left me alone at the register during peak rush hour. Karen No. 2, the kind who insists every single item is price-matched, was next in line. “This shampoo was marked down to $3.99,” she said, waving her receipt. I scanned it—it rang up at $4.99.
“You’re trying to rob me!” she shrieked, demanding a manager. Tabitha appeared again, still licking her fingers. “Just give her the damn discount, Evan.” I complied, knowing resistance was futile. Karen left smug, having conquered the tyranny of our pricing system.
Then, as I returned to bagging, a homeless man wandered in, wearing nothing but a garbage bag and flip-flops. He stared at me, eyes wild, and whispered, “The Mahchine told me to come here.” He grabbed a bottle of cooking oil, opened it, and began to pour it over his head.
Tabitha stormed out once more, wielding a mop handle like a warhammer. “Out! Now!” she roared. The man cackled, slipped on his self-made oil slick, and vanished into the night, leaving nothing but a greasy trail.
Tabitha sighed. “Clean it up, Evan.” I dutifully nodded, grabbing the mop. As I scrubbed under the flickering lights, the hum of the Mahchine echoed faintly through the aisles.
“Yes, friend,” I whispered. “This is fine.” |