it.”
“Get
what?”
“Fuck
you,” she says, pointing at his neck with her teeny middle finger. “A fuck you
bird.”
He chuckles.
She
picks up the copy by her foot, holds it out to him, and says, “You’re kind of a
weirdo.”
He
snatches the book from her, but stares at the cover for a minute.
“And
you’re kind of annoying,” he says.
“My
dad says that a lot.”
“Asshole
of a dad.”
“Yeah,”
she says, looking down at floor.
“I
get it, girl. Most dads are assholes.”
“Oh.”
He
watches the inner-wounded girl for a moment and then opens the cover of the
book she passed to him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a chrome pen,
signing, Air Hunt, on the inside cover. He hands it back to her.
“Keep
this, maybe it will be worth something someday.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.
Well, it’s been fun, girl. But I have shit to do.”
She
waves goodbye, and walks down a candy aisle staring at the signature on the
inside cover.
A
few greased hairs fall over the skin-faded sides of his head. He glides his hands,
in black leather gloves, over the dangling pieces, grooming them back.
Clutching the red plastic handle of the Costco cart, he presses forward,
leaving behind an empty block of space on the book pallet.
“Excuse
me, sir,” someone says from a crowd of Costco employees speed walking towards
him.
“That’s
the jerk,” says the woman he tapped on the nose.
“Stop.
Sir, stop right there.”
“Block
him off,” says another employee.
He
scans the pursuers over his shoulder before turning out of an aisle, the cart
going up on two wheels and almost rolling over. He halts and plucks a meaty
sample from a display table.
“Thank
you,” he says, pulling his cover up and sliding the meat off the toothpick into
his mouth with his two front teeth. He flicks the pick back at the chasers,
chuckling as he pushes onward.
He barrels
through the warehouse. As he nears the exit he comes to a squealing standstill.
A line of Costco employees blocks his escape, standing their ground and staring
him down.
“This
is the end,” says the manager.
The
man sighs through his nostrils in boredom, blowing the mask away from his face.
“Where
do you think you’re going with all those books?”
“You’ll
see.”
“I
don’t think so,” says a different employee.
“The
police are already on their way,” says a woman, pointing at him.
“Then
I do have to get going.”
“You’re
not going anywhere,” says a woman in a red employee vest.
He
pushes the cart forward, and they tense up and jolt back, compacting their
line.
He
snickers at their reaction. In the background, a lineup of Curved LED LCD TVs play
a Straight Outta Compton trailer. The trailer says over a tick-tocking type of beat,
“If you had a chance to change the situation would you take it?”
“Great
line,” he says, charging their defense.
“Now
wait just a minute,” says another employee, reaching out to grab the oncoming
cart.
“I
wouldn’t do that,” he says.
A
customer off to the side, dressed in thigh-high cotton gym shorts wet with
sweat, says, “It’s just a book, guy.” He folds his earthworm-vein-covered
bodybuilder arms across a moist tank top, a size too small.
The
man dressed in all black comes to a jarring stop, focusing his attention on the
cart full of books for a long time.
“Just
a book?”
“That’s
what I said.”
He
pivots toward the meathead with a cart full of protein shakes and other nutritional
muscle-building items, who is much taller and wider.
“Don’t
say it again.”
“Just
a book. All the same stupid book, guy,” he says, laughing as he lifts his
eyebrows at the employees circling around. He pokes his head at the smaller man
in all black. “You seeing this skinny nutcase?”
“Just
a book?”
“You
heard me the first time.”
The
man pulls an all-black .44, matching his attire, from the waist of his jeans
and aims it at the muscular man. Everyone gasps
“Get
what?”
“Fuck
you,” she says, pointing at his neck with her teeny middle finger. “A fuck you
bird.”
He chuckles.
She
picks up the copy by her foot, holds it out to him, and says, “You’re kind of a
weirdo.”
He
snatches the book from her, but stares at the cover for a minute.
“And
you’re kind of annoying,” he says.
“My
dad says that a lot.”
“Asshole
of a dad.”
“Yeah,”
she says, looking down at floor.
“I
get it, girl. Most dads are assholes.”
“Oh.”
He
watches the inner-wounded girl for a moment and then opens the cover of the
book she passed to him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a chrome pen,
signing, Air Hunt, on the inside cover. He hands it back to her.
“Keep
this, maybe it will be worth something someday.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.
Well, it’s been fun, girl. But I have shit to do.”
She
waves goodbye, and walks down a candy aisle staring at the signature on the
inside cover.
A
few greased hairs fall over the skin-faded sides of his head. He glides his hands,
in black leather gloves, over the dangling pieces, grooming them back.
Clutching the red plastic handle of the Costco cart, he presses forward,
leaving behind an empty block of space on the book pallet.
“Excuse
me, sir,” someone says from a crowd of Costco employees speed walking towards
him.
“That’s
the jerk,” says the woman he tapped on the nose.
“Stop.
Sir, stop right there.”
“Block
him off,” says another employee.
He
scans the pursuers over his shoulder before turning out of an aisle, the cart
going up on two wheels and almost rolling over. He halts and plucks a meaty
sample from a display table.
“Thank
you,” he says, pulling his cover up and sliding the meat off the toothpick into
his mouth with his two front teeth. He flicks the pick back at the chasers,
chuckling as he pushes onward.
He barrels
through the warehouse. As he nears the exit he comes to a squealing standstill.
A line of Costco employees blocks his escape, standing their ground and staring
him down.
“This
is the end,” says the manager.
The
man sighs through his nostrils in boredom, blowing the mask away from his face.
“Where
do you think you’re going with all those books?”
“You’ll
see.”
“I
don’t think so,” says a different employee.
“The
police are already on their way,” says a woman, pointing at him.
“Then
I do have to get going.”
“You’re
not going anywhere,” says a woman in a red employee vest.
He
pushes the cart forward, and they tense up and jolt back, compacting their
line.
He
snickers at their reaction. In the background, a lineup of Curved LED LCD TVs play
a Straight Outta Compton trailer. The trailer says over a tick-tocking type of beat,
“If you had a chance to change the situation would you take it?”
“Great
line,” he says, charging their defense.
“Now
wait just a minute,” says another employee, reaching out to grab the oncoming
cart.
“I
wouldn’t do that,” he says.
A
customer off to the side, dressed in thigh-high cotton gym shorts wet with
sweat, says, “It’s just a book, guy.” He folds his earthworm-vein-covered
bodybuilder arms across a moist tank top, a size too small.
The
man dressed in all black comes to a jarring stop, focusing his attention on the
cart full of books for a long time.
“Just
a book?”
“That’s
what I said.”
He
pivots toward the meathead with a cart full of protein shakes and other nutritional
muscle-building items, who is much taller and wider.
“Don’t
say it again.”
“Just
a book. All the same stupid book, guy,” he says, laughing as he lifts his
eyebrows at the employees circling around. He pokes his head at the smaller man
in all black. “You seeing this skinny nutcase?”
“Just
a book?”
“You
heard me the first time.”
The
man pulls an all-black .44, matching his attire, from the waist of his jeans
and aims it at the muscular man. Everyone gasps
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