by Robert Bevan
But one thing you can't change is the hearts and minds of the folks who live there.
Henry Thompson only got elected mayor on account of his initials. All his campaign signs used the logo from the football team's helmets. Feelings were mixed about him botching the deal with the coal refinery, costing the town five thousand much-needed jobs, but folks ultimately stood by their choice and re-elected him.
Bucky would have liked to do his patriotic duty and pull the car over to take a piss on the Crawford sign, but eighteen miles meant at least eleven minutes before he reached the exit. After looking at the clock and doing a bit of math in his head, that would make him twelve minutes late. That ain't too bad, he supposed.
Two cigarettes and six squirts of Binaca later, he pulled into the Texaco's parking lot. He adjusted the mirror and stretched out his lips so he could see if he had any beef jerky pepper in his teeth. He judged the amount acceptable and straightened his tie. With the luck it had brought him the day before, he didn't even entertain the idea of buying a new one. He liked to think it was a sign his father was dead; maybe he was watching over Bucky like he didn't while he was alive.
Bucky strutted through the door like he owned the place, which he knew in his heart he would some day. Rows of candy, chips, and coveted beef jerky stretched in neat, clean aisles before him. To his left a wall of soda bottles stood like gaudy soldiers behind clear refrigerator doors. On the far wall, he could see the promising gleam of glass and aluminum. The beer fridge. The store was like a magical oasis in an ocean of tarmac.
To his right the counter was the counter. Three inches of bullet proof glass stood between Bucky and a large colored fellow wearing a red polo shirt. Bucky rolled his eyes and shook his head as he approached the counter. Dressing like that wasn't going to get him far up the ladder.
“Can I help you?” said the man behind the counter. As he stood up straight, Bucky noticed the Texaco logo on his shirt and the name tag which read Ron.
“My name is Bucky Wallace. I'm here to begin my training.”
Ron looked Bucky up and down. “They didn't give you a shirt?”
“I was hired in kind of a hurry. I can only assume it was due to my extensive list of qualifications.”
Ron grinned. “So you can count? Then I guess you know that makes you twenty minutes late.”
Bucky didn't like the tone of this man's voice one bit. “Might your personal skills have anything to do with why I'm replacing you?” The slight buzz of satisfaction Bucky felt for putting this guy in his place was soon overshadowed by a feeling of gratitude that his place was on the other side of two inches of bulletproof glass.
“I'm quitting this shit job to go to graduate school.”
“I meant no offense,” said Bucky. “Ain't everybody can hack the dog-eat-dog lifestyle their first time out. Best to go back, get some more training, and try your luck again. I can respect that. You just might make something of yourself yet.”
Ron gave Bucky that look Bucky’s mama used to give him when she wanted to give him a good beating but they were in a public place. Ron pointed to the Employee’s Only door at the far end of the store. “Get your dumb ass back here and learn the register. I clock out at nine whether you've got this shit figured out or not.”
Bucky walked to the door and waited for Ron to open it and usher him inside. Beyond the door was a narrow hallway leading back to the counter, made narrower by free standing shelving units on either side, crammed with bottles of engine oil, windshield wiper fluid and other miscellaneous gas station shit.
It was a little too cozy for the two of them behind the counter, crammed as they were against the ancient VHS security monitors and a jumbled box of lost and found items. He watched over Ron’s shoulder as he sold items from the convenience store, switched on the gas pumps, and worked the cash register. Ron explained what he'd done in painstaking detail after he'd serviced each customer, but most of it went over Bucky's head. Hands on experience was what he needed. He'd learn this shit as he went. Three customers in, Bucky already found himself making mental notes on how Ron's processes might be made more efficient.
Carding anyone under forty for cigarettes was one good example. They didn't do that shit when Bucky was in high school. Hell, he might not have kept up the habit if they weren't so easy to get. Besides, if you know how fucking old they are, what's the point in carding them in the first place? What kind of sense did that—
“Hey, man, are you paying attention?”
“Absolutely,” said Bucky.
“Then what’d I just say?”
Bucky fixed Ron with a confident stare. “You said that in the high-pressure world of supply and demand, the needs of the customer dictates the service policy of any industry that hopes to stay competitive.”
“Actually, I told you not to pass any solids in the staff bathroom.”
“Yeah, sure, that too,” said Bucky.
Ron looked up at the clock. “Look, Cletus—”
“My name’s Bucky.”
“Look, Cletus, you’ve only got a couple of hours before you have to run this place by yourself. Now, I don’t give a shit if you sink or swim, but the folks in Hell’s Titties need to fuel their cars. So, do yourself a favor and take some notes while I show you how to shut down the pumps.”
Bucky nodded, grabbed a pen from a soup can that had been repurposed as a stationary holder, and held it ready over his forearm.
Ron blinked slowly, his face an avalanche of casual disdain. “You want me to get you a pad?”
“Why, you think this’ll take long? It can’t be that hard, right?”
Ron sighed like a deflating bouncy house. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Now, the first thing you need to know is…”
Bucky nodded and scribbled on his forearm while his thoughts took him to board meetings, golf courses, discussing corporate strategy over brandy and cigars with fellow captains of industry. Probably at Hooters.
Chapter 20
The Tiny Tino’s factory only operated four days a week. The market for undersized pizzas that were mostly sodium was heavily competitive, and like most of the industry in Hell’s Titties, Tino’s was on the decline. Which would hopefully make breaking in a lot easier.
Outside the wide, flat building, Zelda’s van sat like a dung beetle in the dust of the staff parking lot. There were no security cameras to observe them, or indeed, anybody who gave a solitary fuck. Floyd stood with his freshly filled Super Splasher at the ready, the bug bomb hooked into his belt. He looked up at the red,white and green Tiny Tino’s logo, which seemed as though the artist had been unaware of how to draw a racist Italian stereotype, so had settled on a racist Mexican stereotype instead. Floyd could almost make out that the words underneath had once read: “Tiny Tino’s: A Taste of Italy You Can’t Beat!” However, some local whit had long since scraped off the words until it read “Tiny Tino’s: A Taste of taYnt.”
“I could use a little help here,” said Zelda with a grunt. She was currently trying to pry open the metal shutter of the delivery entrance with a crowbar.
Thorin looked uncomfortable. “Is this a stupid idea? This feels like this is a stupid idea.”
“Nah.” Mark passed him the joint and went to assist Zelda.
“Won’t there be an alarm?” asked Rainn.
Zelda shook her head and nodded to some cable cutters on the ground beside her. “I already got the telephone wire.”
Floyd frowned and sucked on his own joint. “You…uh… you got a lot of tools, there, Zelda.”
“Most of them came with the van,” said Zelda, seeking purchase with the crowbar. “It was my dad’s. They’re tools of his trade.”
“What trade was he in?”
“Breaking and entering, mostly.”
Floyd started as his pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone to see that Bucky had texted him again.
+HAVE YOU FOUND DEMON YET? (muscle emoji, muscle emoji, hammer emoji, bug emoji, grave emoji, American flag emoji)+
Floyd sighed and texted back. +NOT YET. HALF HOUR SINCE YOU LAST ASKED (eggplant emoji, eggplant emoji, eggplant emoji)+
The shutter gave way with a loud rattle and opened up by a couple of feet. Beyond the entrance was only darkness and a distant whirr that sounded like a refrigerator.
Floyd savored the sudden waft of sourdough and overripe tomatoes. “Man, I feel just like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory.”
“Hey, I loved that book,” said Rainn.
“They made that into a book?”
“Get it together, guys,” said Thorin. “Remember what we’re here for.” He held up his water-gun like a cop about to charge into a drug den. “We don’t know what’s on the other side of this door.”
“Only one way to find out,” said Zelda, flicking on her headlamp. She ducked under the doorway. And screamed.
“Hold on!” Floyd roared. He tried to roll under the door, bounced off, and then tried to slide through. With a helpful boot from Mark and Thorin, he burst through to the other side and came up with his Super Splasher ready. “Where is it!?” he screeched.
Zelda cleared her throat. “Uh…false alarm, I guess.” She pointed to something illuminated by her headlamp beam. Floyd jumped in shock before he realized what he was looking at— a life-sized statue of Tiny Tino, his big possibly-Mexican/possibly-Italian face twisted into the kind of manic grin reserved for people who had won the blowjob lottery. There was a sword buried in his head, sliced cleanly through his perky chef’s hat and right down into his beaming face.
“You got something against Tino?” Floyd said.
Zelda shrugged and began prying her blade free. While she did so, Thorin, Mark, and Rainn dragged themselves under the door and looked around.
“Oh,” said Floyd, unable to hide his disappointment. Whatever wondrous surprises he’d expected from the interior of Tiny Tino’s, he’d been let down. By the low light of the emergency exit signs, Floyd could see they were in a grubby looking delivery bay, with haphazard stacks of cardboard boxes and piles of wrapping filling every corner. There was a cold curtain on one side, the source of the electric hum beyond it, and a darker hallway on the left.
“We should split up,” said Zelda.
“You...uh… you sure that’s a good idea?” said Thorin.
Zelda gave her sword a casual twirl. “Yeah, sure, come on Rainn.”
“Woah, woah, you’re leaving me with these guys?” said Floyd.
“You guys have got your water guns, right?” Rainn said, grinning. “If anything happens just cry real loud and we’ll come running.”
Mark flipped her the bird and they watched as Zelda and Rainn strode into the darkened hallway.
Floyd swallowed. “Well, guys. Let’s go. Mark, you flank me, Thorin, you watch our six.”
“Watch your what?”
“Just hang back and make sure nothing sneaks up on us.”
“What if something sneaks up on me?”
“Good point,” said Mark. “Maybe we should just watch each other’s asses?”
“You mean, like, in a circle?”
“Just come on already,” said Floyd. “We can stare at each other’s asses on our own time.”
The three crept forward and swished through the cold curtain. The room beyond was largely empty, with a few long preparation tables and what looked like a packaging machine lurking in the darkened corners. A dim emergency bulb illuminated a heavy looking door.
“That must be the freezer,” said Thorin.
“Where the food is,” Mark added.
“Right.” Floyd licked the sweat from his mustache. “Let’s do this.”
He pulled down the heavy handle and the door swung slowly outwards. There was an omnipresent bang and the warehouse was suddenly thrown into sharp relief. Floyd, Thorin, and Mark each jumped in a different direction, laying themselves flat on the floor, arms over their heads.
“Hey, we found the lights!” Rainn cried.
Floyd blinked a couple of times and got slowly to his feet. The warehouse looked a lot less creepy with the lights on. He exchanged a sheepish glance with Thorin and Mark, and each of them cleared their throats in manly ways, giving the secret signal not to discuss what had just happened in front of the women-folk.
Rainn and Zelda wandered over. “What have we got?”
Floyd pushed open the freezer door and felt his heart drop.
“Oh, man. They use this processed crap for the crust?” He said, picking up a pack of frozen white discs. “They don’t make ‘em fresh?”
“At least they prepare the toppings themselves,” said Mark, indicating to various plastic containers filled with vegetables and deli meats
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What were you expecting?” said Rainn.
Floyd shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe ovens, and guys with big trays on sticks, and… I don’t know… onions strung up around the place? Grandmas peeling garlic?”
Thorin shook his head in mock sadness. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed,” he said. “Maybe when you die, you’ll go to whatever heaven it is that Dean Martin went to?”
“That’s a real nice thing to say, man,” said Floyd. “Thanks.”
Rainn rolled her eyes. “He’s making fun of you, Floyd.”
“Oh. Well, fuck you then, Thorin.”
“So what now?” said Zelda. “I don’t see any sign of Zabor. No signs of forced entry either. Other than us, I guess.”
Mark, who had wandered off, came jogging in from the far side of the factory, clearly excited. “Guys! You’ll never guess what I found!”
Floyd put a hand to his bug bomb, ready for anything. “What?”
“The break room has a microwave!”
Rainn sighed. “So?”
“Isn’t anyone else hungry yet?”
Thorin sucked thoughtfully on the joint. “Actually, yes. Now that you mention it, I’m very hungry.”
“We got sandwiches,” Floyd said, patting his backpack.
Mark pointed to the discs of frozen pizza dough and boxes of toppings. “We also have infinite pizza,” he said, sagely.
Floyd’s excitement was hampered by the bittersweet realization that true perfection was only just out of reach. “If only we had—”
Mark held up his hand in a shushing gesture. Without a word, he reached into his backpack and pulled out four forty ounce bottles of Reichmann lager.
Floyd’s jaw dropped and his eyes watered with joy. “Dude, how did you know?”
Mark shook his head solemnly. “I didn’t. This is destiny.”
“Oh, come on,” said Zelda, testily. “Did we come here to find a demon or did we come here to party?”
Rainn pulled a bottle of peach schnapps out of her shoulder bag with an apologetic shrug. “Apparently both?” she said.
“Oh, come on!”
“It’s okay, Zelda, this is all part of the plan,” said Floyd.
“Bullshit.”
“Seriously. We know that the bug demon’s got a hard-on for two things— junk food and public masturbation. When he does enough of the last one, he’ll get a hankering for the first one. And we’ll be ready for him. In fact, the sooner we start microwaving these pizzas, the more of an enticing trap we set for him!”
Zelda looked at Floyd skeptically for a while, saw the hopeful grins of her friends, and then pursed her lips and reluctantly nodded her approval.
Floyd and Mark simultaneously pumped their fists, then they dropped their water guns, grabbed an armload of pizza crusts and toppings and sprinted toward the break room.
Chapter 21
2:13 a.m.
Keeping time was one of the few things Bucky’s crappy old Nokia could still do with any reliability. Two full minutes had passed since Bucky last checked his phone. About twenty minutes had passed since he last had a customer. And it had been more than two goddamn hours since he'd last heard from Floyd.
In Floyd's defense, he didn't sound like he was in a state which would allow him to make
or receive future phone calls, or to even understand what a phone was. It sounded like he and the bookstore gang were having themselves a good time, and good for them. Of course, if they did happen to run into Zabor while they were in this condition, they were good and fucked.
A pang of guilt nagged at Bucky's gut. He was selfishly working alone while Floyd and the goth gang might all be getting torn apart by a cockroach demon. Who was he kidding? Try as he may, he couldn't bullshit himself. That wasn't guilt. It was envy. They were out there getting properly shithoused, and he wasn't.
“Don't think like that, Bucky. You made a plan and you're gonna stick to it. Eyes on the prize, motherfucker. You can go and hunt demons with your friends on your nights off.”
Talking to himself had proved to be one of the more effective ways Bucky had experimented with to keep himself awake. Doing nothing for hours at a time was exhausting.
Sighing, he fished an old umbrella out of the lost and found box and started performing some of his Buckido Kata. The umbrella wasn’t a great specimen, though, sporting a few broken spokes and lacking the twirling design that was an essential part of his combat strategy. It soon became clear to Bucky that, with such substandard equipment, Buckido practice was not going to kill the remaining six hours of his shift. He put the umbrella back in the box and leaned against the countertop.
Why was he so goddamn sleepy all of a sudden? This was well before his usual bedtime. The one major difference between most nights and this one was staring Bucky right in the face through the glass refrigerator doors.
An ethical conundrum. Is it wrong to have a beer on the job?
Bucky couldn't recall ever having seen a gas station attendant drinking during working hours. But then again, he'd never thought to look for it. He looked around his glass shielded room. There were plenty of places to put a can or bottle where a customer wouldn't be able to see it.
Besides, what was that saying? Act according to the job you want, not the job you have. How many movies had Bucky seen where the fat cat executives had bottles of scotch on display in their offices? Hundreds.