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Fear
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Reprisal
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Desolation
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Coming soon...
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| AISLE ONE | - | PEDAGOGY: the art, science, or profession of teaching. | | | | THE ITEM | - | The Backroom |
Was it boredom? Bravery? Curiosity? I might have said so once but the truth is that it was nothing more than downright stupidity, really.
There was something devilish in the air that shameful night, I’m sure I picked up on that but ignored it like an asshole. I began shopping simply enough by waddling my fat rear down the aisles filling up my wagon with all the latest technological hygiene wonders. Denture cream, dandruff shampoo, Preparation H, shaving cream with aloe, you get the gist. I remember thinking about the time when I didn’t have to pick up maxi-pads anymore, a habit only replaced by buying Depends. Ah well, at 86 I was just glad I could still manage to leave the house when I had to.
By the time I reached the produce aisle I was tired and knew I needed to shit soon. Bananas were three pounds for a dollar, I noticed. Being a fruit that I can still eat, I decided to stock up a bit. They were all green. Sure I could have bought them and ripened them myself at home in probably only a day or so, but my needing to shit flared my impatience.
To this day it frightens me to think that I did this, but I began to really lay into the nearest produce clerk about wanting riper bananas. Would I believe he could pull them out of thin air? His name was Mike. It went something like this:
"Don't you have any more bananas? These ones aren't ripe enough."
"No, Ma'am. Not until tomorrow, I'm sorry."
"Not any at all?"
"No, Ma'am. Not until tomorrow, I'm sorry."
"Not even in the back?"
"No, Ma'am. Not until tomorrow, I'm sorry."
"Well... can't you check?" |
I just wouldn’t take no for an answer. I mean, just what in the hell was in that mysterious back room? Fuck Mike, I wanted my bananas! The thought actually crossed my mind to head back to that forbidden district on my own and see for myself. God, looking back, I can’t believe I was in a state of mind where I thought that shit would actually flush. The next thing I know, the aisle temperature dropped about 25 degrees. That’s when I looked up and saw him for the first time. The name tag propped up where his left nipple would lay read RANDOM ZEN in green and gold. But of course you know this already.
You would think the aisles would tremble each morning in anticipation of his presence. With almost no observable facial expression to note, I was somehow able to detect a frightening level of pure rage. It poured right out of this man. I remember those eyes, those red, smoldering, and dark eyes. Looking into them I saw no soul, but the very depths of infinite hell reflected back at me. His mere company dwarfed my essence. I was never more aware of my station in life than at that very moment. I was a customer facing judgement from a Master Clerk, and my fate was rightly sealed.
He snatched me up by my aging twat and hauled me down the aisles like a skunked 6-pack. I was pulled through the backroom doors and dropped onto the floor after several minutes of walking. Without saying a word or pausing to take a breath, he began kicking the hell out of me. My diaper was filled with shit, piss, puss, and blood. I was surprised and thankful no organs were found. After twenty-five minutes enduring the beating of my life he asked only, "Do you see any bananas here?"
I don’t remember if I was hit again or if I simply blacked out, but I awoke in a dumpster owned by my apartment complex and not far from my own space. I don’t know why I was spared, maybe only to spread my words to others in warning. I learned my lesson well, but I will still never, ever set foot in a supermarket again. I’m barely able to sleep at this point.
"And if the Babe is born a Boy
He's given to a Woman Old,
Who nails him down upon a rock,
Catches his shrieks in cups of gold."
- William Blake
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