>You have been arguing with this short, fat, frumpy, toad-human hybrid of a woman

for what feels like an eternity.

>Everything about her was unpleasant.
>Her face was bloated and puffy, with wrinkled jowls flanking a broad, lipless
mouth.
>Said mouth was perched beneath a fine moustache, like what one would expect to see
on a pedophile, or DVD rewinder salesman.
>Above that, sat a hooked and beak like nose.
>If she smoked, and from her pungent odor and pus yellow teeth you were fairly
certain she did, she would have been able to do so freely in the rain, due to the
size of the schnozz that protruded from between her beady, rodent like eyes.
>Okay, so she probably wasnt that bad, but shes been trying to pass off
expired, fake, and used coupons off on you for 30 minutes.
>No, I have coupons. You have to take them!
Im sorry Maam, but thats a coupon for a free burrito at Taco Bell. This is
a Sears.
>So far, shes tried to pay for a food processor using two denied credit cards, a
wad of pesos (not Nuevo pesos, the old kind), and an assortment of monopoly money
and buttons.
>It says 20% off, and Im not going to let you con me out of my hard earned
money!
That offer ended. In 1986. Even if it were 1986, youd have to spend $100 to use
it. Which, you also havent done.
>She huffs at you, giving you the stink eye before stuffing her pudgy, sausage-like
fingers back in her purse.
>Every time she opens it, you get a good look at the crisp, fresh, hundred dollar
bill just sitting there, always rejected, always ignored.
>Like a strongman contender at a crossfit gym, you were at an absolute loss as to
what the fuck was going on.
>Finally, perhaps realizing that she was out of luck in the coupon department.
>I demand to see your manager! Ive been marginalized due to my gender! If a
MAN had tried to pay with these coupons, you wouldnt have given them a second
glance!
>You cant even stifle this sigh.
>Shed spoken to her twice already. She even gave her a 20% discount. The second
time she came back, she upgraded it to a 30%.
>You glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with her.
>Shes reading a Cosmo magazine and chewing gum.
>Your eyes meet over the cover picture of some obscenely photogenic woman with 3%
bodyfat and a dress so low cut youre fairly certain they photoshopped her nipples
out.
>It only takes a moment, but in that moment your communication was perfect.
>>If you make me go over there one more goddamn time, I will make sure that you
clean every womens restroom in this store, every day, for a month.
>Fuck.
I AM THE MANAGER!
>You shout exasperatedly, throwing your arms in the air like you just dont care.
>The toad goes quiet at this, her dumb, glassy eyes narrowing at you slightly.
>It takes her a moment to process this obviously fallacious claim.
>Well . . . I want to talk to your regional supervisor!
AAAAUUGH!
>You just scream in incoherent rage at the sky, cursing whatever gods there might
be above or below who had doomed you to such a fate.
>The store was suddenly very quiet.
>Wow, thats a lot of people staring at you . . .
>The looks from the staff were ones of sympathy.
>The customers wore a mixture of confusion and surprise.
>You let out a long, slow breath through your nose as you slowly lower your arms
back to your sides.
>Your voice creaks out in a high pitched, slightly pained whisper.
You know what? Hes here today. In the back. Ill. Go. Get. Him.
>You punctuate every word by grinning wider, and leaning in a bit closer until your
noses nearly touch.
>God this woman has pores that look like craters on the moon.
>Before she can open her mouth and let another intellectually draining travesty of
English grammar splutter out, you bolt from the checkout area toward the back.
>Not today. There just wasnt enough of your patience to go around today.
>You head for the supply closet. The one with cleaning solvent in it.
>The janitor, Marcus, whom you had gotten to know after an incontinent narcoleptic
stopped in to grab some emergency Imodium for his stomach virus and had fallen
asleep in the middle of the isle, was always stashing things in there.
>You shudder at the memory.
>Some smells couldnt be washed out, for they stained your very soul.
>You reach the closet shortly after your PTSD flashback ends.
>After stepping inside, you lock the door behind you, pull out your phone, and
begin searching for the bottle.
>The emergency bottle.
>A 95% pure bottle of ethyl alcohol.
>Marcus had kept at least one stocked in here in case of another . . . Brown
Sunday.
>To be fair though, it was really more of a Brown with Bloody Streaks Sunday,
and it wasnt the dust bowl, it was a porcelain bowl.
>An alcohol bath was the only way to get the smell out.
>So, with a cough and a wince, you took a seat in the pitch dark cupboard, and
began fighting with the cap.