The system has finally done it. They’ve driven a taxi through my store. Now when the kids come in for the soda fountain, I can give them motor oil.
Boss, who is an Indian son of a gun but in a good way, comes in, slapping his sandals against the linoleum, and says Clean up on aisle twelve.
We have three little aisles. There are dead people in two of them. Candy aisle full of blood. Baked goods aisle full of guts. Canned goods spared. We sell peas that day.
On the police report, they blame it on the harsh effect of sunlight. But really, it’s bad fucking luck, God cracking his fingers at the exact moment he should be out saving people. Or maybe he’s attending a first communion or something. Maybe the way we die is that we’re completely abandoned and then all we have is flesh keeping us inside our bodies.
Finally, Boss hands me a mop.
From “The World is Flat”