He rounds the corner between Snack Cakes and the first of the refrigerated aisles. Almost bumps into the Handy Kart parked there. The rider—holy shit, it’s none other than Shopper X. He of the Mystery Disability. And he’s talking to Lottie, the unlucky checker who must have been picked to service him tonight.
“No, that one. Under ‘novelties.’Novelties. Lowest shelf.”
Nobody knows what his handicap is, but Shopper X always comes in late, plunks down in the nearest Kart, and demands staff follow him around for assistance. He revels in the power, you can tell.
“No. Next row, honey. You’re real close.”
He’s leaning back in the Kart, arms folded across his chest like a pharaoh. Wearing his omnipresent gray windbreaker zippered up to the chin. Fingers delicate as porcelain sticks protrude from the sleeves.
Poor Lottie, her fingers are red with cold, because X has her rooting around in Ice Cream Novelties. The refrigerator’s glass panel is already frosted from being open too long. She’s bending low in an awkward position, ample thighs and buttocks swelling her khakis. The back of her polo’s crept up, and you can see the fine sheen of black hair covering her tailbone.
Shopper X’s eyes are fixed on that patch.
He makes a groaning sound, almost too low to hear.
“That’s good, sweetie. Let me see it.”
Lottie straightens and shows him a king-size pack of Otter Pops. She sees Woof, her eyes going from glazed to sort of pleading for a second, like she wants him to do something. Say something. He opens his mouth, but the pressure’s there immediately. His cheek and lips contort in a massive tic.
Lottie’s about to slide the popsicles into the Kart basket, next to a lone box of Pecan Twirls. X holds up his hand.
“Price check?”
“Two dollars even,” she says.
“Nah. Put it back.”
She bends down low again and X starts humming, rocking back and forth a little in his seat. Mid-hum he notices Woof standing there.
“What’s the matter with your face, boy? You look like you’re doing an Elvis impression.”
Woof feels himself flush, but manages to hold back the sounds trying to explode from his throat. X leans his head close and whispers: “See that nice young piece over there? Got a dollar bill in my pocket for her tip. Maybe I’ll make her reach down and get it.”
He’s talking like they’re old drinking buddies checking out a waitress together at the bar. Woof doesn’t want to be included in this pervert’s game. He’s had enough. He snatches up the box of Pecan Twirls and cocks it over X’s head.
“You keep your dollar—”
Whack!
“—you mother-loving, Kart-riding-around freak.”
Whack!
And he says it with crystal focus, no yips, barks, or anything.
Inside Man
By Eric Beetner
Let me give you a tip: Don’t trust my brother to be the inside man.
This is, of course, advice I should have followed, but I’ve never been considered the smart one. And after what J.T. did, that is not a bright reflection on me.
I waited in the car for a good half-hour. How long does it take to empty a cash register at a Megamart? They got, like, fifty of ’em.
So I go in. Let me just say this: Oh, the humanity!
Your typical Megamart customer is not exactly a fashion plate, but we’d never been down that far south before. There was a fat guy in head-to-toe camouflage, a fat lady in some sort of mesh top with her gut-and-a-half making a dive south for the border. I saw an old guy wearing what I can only assume was his wife’s jean shorts with lace trim along with black knee socks pulled all the way up. A dude in a T-shirt that read “I eat pussy like a fat kid eats cake,” and a gal in garter belts, a tube top, two-inch fingernails, and five-inch heels—and she was carrying a kid!
After my head got spun around by the scenery, I remembered to look for J.T. I found him hanging out in the sporting goods aisle. He was poking around, not looking at stuff but pretending, y’know? All nervous and shit. Cold feet.
I walked right up to him. “What the fuck you doin’?”
“I’m biding my time.” Bet you dollars to donuts he don’t even know what that means.
“Well, what the fuck for?”
“The right moment.”
A geriatric (fatter than shit, do I need to say it?) rolled by on a rascal, so I waited until he passed before smacking J.T. upside the head.
“The right moment is now.”
He got the message. He scratched at his crotch, put everything back in place, and slapped his own cheek—hard. Steeling himself for battle.
We’d done a dozen or so little jobs—mini marts, gas stations—on the way down south, but this was big time. The store was big anyway. I told him the trick was to go to the ten items or less aisle. They get a lot more transactions and more in cash. Damn near everyone uses their friggin’ debit card these days.
I should have followed him. By the time I got near the front, almost out the door—the old greeter dude was already telling me to have a nice day—I turned and he wasn’t there. I quick-stepped it back to sporting goods and saw him. He’d left my little pep talk and went to the nearest register—which happened to be at a little counter called, you guessed it, the gun department.
Idiot.
He asked to see a gun, and when he had it in his hand, he turned it on the clerk and demanded all the money. Well, see, there are several problems with this plan. “Plan” is being generous. I had a damn plan, he just didn’t follow it.
First off, no gun they give you is gonna be loaded. We’d been working without guns so far. No armed robbery charges for us. It’s all implied. Make them think you got a gun and you don’t need one.
Second, the dudes you’re robbing are surrounded by guns, dickweed!
I swear I’ve never seen so many hillbillies pop up and move like someone called “Hike!”
All in all there were five guys behind the counter and they all went into defense mode like Osama Bin Laden just walked into their Megamart. Shotguns came off the walls, rifle bolts were cocked and loaded, a .357 magnum came out from the case. Those good ’ol boys knew exactly where the ammo was, too. This was a well-oiled machine. Either J.T.’s level of dipshittery happens a lot or these Gomers had been waiting on this a long time.
J.T. panics. I knew he would. Clicks the useless trigger a few times then turns to run. Every last one of those dumb crackers lets her rip. J.T.’s back becomes a collector’s case for every caliber of shell manufactured in the U.S. today.
Once they got one shot off it was hard to stop, I guess. They looked like the cast of Hee Haw and they aimed like it too.
A (fat) woman fell, a rifle bullet spoiling her denim on denim over fishnet stocking combo. Some guy wearing what looked to me like a Halloween pimp costume got dropped. I should mention this happened in July.
I couldn’t even feel that bad for J.T., the dumb fuck.
I made for the door. The old geezer must not have had his hearing aid turned on because he hadn’t even noticed the gunshots that sounded like a leftover fireworks finale from last week.
“Have a nice day. Thanks for shopping at Megamart,” he said like a robot.
Thanks, fuckface. Enjoy the cleanup on aisle ten.
The Bayou Beast: A Requiem
By Jack Bates
“I ought to kill her.”
This was the thought, the only thought, that ran through Rick Baker’s head. It made it difficult to discern who he wanted to kill, however: his agent or the scrawny young mother in front of him. Rick’s irritation rippled under his skin, complicated by the fact he was in full swamp monster costume for opening night of Bayou Beast: The Musical.
Rick stood in the Express Lane at the local Find, another link in the chain of discount stores stretching outlets to their respective breaking points. Six jars of cold cream, a package of twelve black eye-liner pencils, and a can of the Find generic f
ruity cola sat in the bottom of the shopping cart Rick leaned on. He watched the dirty-blonde mom in front of him argue with the middle-aged check-out lady sporting a pink bow around her graying bun. The argument involved defining “items.” For the agitated mom, the twelve cans of cat food was definitely a single item because they were all cat food. If, as she said in perfect senate-hearing sarcasm, the twelve cans were shrink-wrapped on a cardboard sleeve, it would count as a single item. The mom leaned over the stopped belt. Her tight pink tank top lifted up to reveal a tramp-stamp of Michelangelo magnificence.
Having suffered through many a similar oration, Bun-and-Bow began the arduous task of ringing up each can of cat food. She flicked a switch on a pole next to her register. A yellow light snapped off. Rick caught the slightest change in the posture of the overweight security guard wearing the bright green polo shirt with the Find name over the left breast. The security man did a slow pivot before moving off toward other check-out aisles of concern.
The high-pitched squeal of the angry child in Tramp Stamp’s cart reminded Rick that might not happen.
Twelve cans of cat food were the tip of Tramp Stamp’s iceberg. Rick couldn’t keep track of it all, and not because he couldn’t count. Between the wailing of the child in front of him, the incessant beeping from the register’s red eye, and the intrusive blasts of advertising music piped in from the hanging monitors called Find-Vision, as well as the oppressive heat and weight of his costume, Rick felt like he was going to explode. Mom continued to put things on the Express Lane check-out belt. Rick swore under his breath. The unexpected noise from the towering hedge in front of her startled the crying child. She released an ear-splitting cry that garnered a look from Bun-and-Bow but not the mom. She was reaching under the cart now, pulling up bottles of bleach. Rick put a hand to his black-and-green painted lips. The sudden action from the otherwise stationary mass of plastic foliage sent the girl into a fit of fear. She kicked her feet against the front end of Rick’s cart. Rick tried to back up but was stopped by the customer’s cart behind him.
Rick felt his eye twitch. How did he get here? He remembered his agent selling him on it.
“His name is Charles Dunlap,” Rick’s agent had told him in her nasally voice. “Dunlap. He was huge in the eighties, Ricky. Huge. You got a scene with Chuck Dunlap, you were gold. He still has that magic, even though he splits most of his days between Derby and his condo in Boca. You make a connection with Chuck Dunlap, Ricky, and you are on your way.”
“On my way to a chain gang for throttling someone,” Rick thought.
Rick never made that connection with Charles Dunlap. At one time they couldn’t get Dunlap to leave, but the shine wore off and now they couldn’t get him to come back; “they” being a local chef whose two restaurants failed in New Orleans and a former child star turned artistic director whose claim to fame was the catch phrase “That because I say so.” These were the people Rick connected with, along with the writers and a cast of junior college performers. Rick was Equity bringing knowledge, experience, and credibility.
And that was how he wound up in a Find Discount Store.
He drew in a heavy, deep breath and let it out in a steady, weight-lifting sigh. The fabric foliage around his face rippled. The child in front of him became frantic. She kicked with both feet at Rick’s cart, this time jolting the cart’s handle into Rick’s stomach. Not that it had any force to knock the wind out of him, but instinctively, Rick shoved back. Not maliciously, he told himself, but just out of a natural reaction. Every action has an opposite but equal reaction. That’s all it was: a reaction.
Except that Rick’s cart struck the little tyke in the knees.
It was the only time the tramp-stamp mom paid any attention to the child.
“Hey. Don’t you touch my child.”
“It was an accident.”
“Bullshit it was an accident,” the mother said. The backs of her wrists went to her hips, her fingers curled as if on the handles of an invisible pair of six-shooters. “You pushed your goddamn cart right into my baby.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Rick cast his eyes on the people around him but nobody looked at him. All concern was for the little girl with the pink and purple creases growing over her lily white knees. Rick swung his leafy head back to the child and her mother. A yellow light flicked on at the tip of the pole by Bun-and-Bow’s register. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Is that blood on my baby’s knee?” the mother asked. Bun-and-Bow leaned over the stopped belt. She squinted at the spot where the mom’s finger pointed. “I think that’s blood.”
“Oh, come on.” Rick said. His voice silenced everything except the happy mom using detergent on the Find-Vision screen mounted above his head for everyone behind him to stare at, forgetting how long they were waiting in line. “I didn’t cut her.”
“But you did ram your shopping cart into her knees.”
“It was an accident!” Rick raised his arms in the air. Gray plastic Spanish moss dangled and whipped around in front of him. The mother did a head-ducking swerve to avoid being struck. She shielded her baby with her body.
“You keep away from us, freak!”
“Sir, step out of the line.” The green-shirted security man had moved to their aisle.
“Look, I just want to check out and get to my show on time.”
“Now, sir. Out of the line.”
Rick turned to the people behind him. “Can’t any of you tell him what happened? Can’t any of you tell him it was an accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident. He pushed his cart into my baby and then he took a swing at me,” the mother said.
She’s good, Rick thought. She should be in our show. She should play the cynical, grieving mother of the boy who becomes me. Rick turned slowly to face her, raising his hands high over his head in frustration. Rick released a visceral yawp meant to let the audience feel the pain of the creature as it fought to end global warming and win the heart of the high school homecoming queen.
“Look out! He’s got—”
Rick didn’t have anything, but it didn’t matter. With his back to the security guard, a jillion hot pins shot into his lower back. These tiny lightning bolts ricocheted through his bones and flew out his fingertips and his eyes. The last thing he saw before he toppled to the floor in a mass of plastic and fabric foliage was the extra-white smile of the teenage model as she winked down at him from the Find-Vision monitor. A sparkling star appeared in the corner of her mouth, and then like any super nova that burns itself out, the world around it went black.
For the first time ever, the show did not go on that night and a star was not born.
Their Fancies Lightly Turned…
By Bill Crider
Royce and Burl were both young men, and in the spring their fancies lightly turned to thoughts of Megamart and of the ingredients for making meth.
They wheeled into the parking lot in Royce’s old Dodge Ram pickup and barreled along in front of the store, ignoring the stop signs and nearly taking out a grandmotherly woman pushing a shopping cart full of groceries.
“Three points!” Burl said. “If you’d hit her. You’re such a pussy, Royce. I’d’ve hit her.”
“Woulda been five points,” Royce said. “Didn’t you see the kid in the basket? I don’t run down kids, though.”
“You’re right. No kids. Park this damn thing.”
Royce turned down a row, spotted a couple of empty slots, and parked straddling the line that divided them.
“One point,” Royce said.
They bailed out of the truck and headed for the automatic door.
* * *
Horace Gibson seemed to love being a Megamart greeter. He wore his blue vest with the smiley face. He obeyed the ten-foot rule. At the drop of a hat he could break into the Megamart Cheer: “Who’s number one? The Customer! Always!” He appeared to think of himself as a ground-bound St. Peter, presiding over the gates to a commercial paradise.
&nb
sp; Burl and Royce thought of him as an asshole, but that was just because he was old. He had his uses. They sauntered past him and into the store, passing by the big rack of special items and the old guy pushing Medicare supplements. They knew where they were going.
Burl turned right and went toward the pharmacy. Royce kept going to the back of the store where the lithium batteries hung. They knew the security cameras were on, but they weren’t worried about that. Both of them wore long-billed caps with the bills pulled low to hide their faces.
Burl wore a sweatshirt with a wide hand-warming pouch in front. When he reached the cold medicine, he pulled a Megamart vest from the pouch, put it on, and began to grab boxes of everything he could see that contained pseudoephedrine. Or that he thought contained it. He didn’t have time to read labels. He shoved the boxes into the pouch as fast as he could. A woman nearby looked at him as though she might be thinking of doing something dumb, like calling for security.
“I work here,” Burl said, pointing to the smiley face on the front of his vest. “There’s been big recall on this stuff. It’s poisoning people.”
He didn’t care if the woman believed him. He figured the vest would slow her down long enough.
Meanwhile Royce was stuffing lithium batteries in the pockets of his jeans as fast as he could. The pockets had been altered to add an extra foot of length. They’d hold a lot of batteries, but Royce would have to walk a little funny.
Royce saw what Megamart called an “asset protection officer” headed his way, so he took off. The security guy pounced at him, but the guard was slammed to the floor by a motorized shopping cart driven by Horace Gibson.
“Stop that man,” Horace yelled, pointing at Royce. “Don’t let him get away. He’s armed and dangerous.”
Customers began fading away. They didn’t want anything to do with a dangerous man with a gun.
Horace took off in pursuit, and in the process his cart hit a standing rack of DVDs that toppled over and landed on the security guy. Royce was practically at the entrance by then, and he saw Burl headed out the door. He sped up to catch him, hobbled only a little by all the batteries in his jeans.
Discount Noir Page 4
