1 Prolouge
{That chicken was horrible}, he thought to himself, {Truly nasty and overcooked, like always}, he sighed, {Then again, it was cheap, so I can't complain.} He drew his book, Hagakure: The Way of the Samurai, from the pocket of his army-surplus field jacket and continued reading. No one could understand why the hell a young man, twenty years old and in the prime of his life, would want to sit at a lunch table and read about a society where men would slice open their stomachs for the slightest illusion of dishonor, especially right after lunch. {How could they? Bushido isn't just about chasing death for honor. It was about doing what was right, no matter the cost.} Turning each page and absorbing the knowledge of the ages, time slipped slowly along, until a knocking sound came from his immediate left. His heart jumped and his head turned, eyes widening a little, but he did his best to hide the surprise behind his thin, gray-framed spectacles. The shock turned to recognition as his falsely alleged attacker, standing six-foot-three to his left across from the wall made partially of imitation wood, finally spoke.
"You gonna sit around and read your book or are you going back to work sometime around the year's end?" The sarcasm was rich and thick off his tongue, "You do know your about fifteen minutes late getting back from lunch." His thirty-year-old grin was easy to notice on his dark, stubble- ridden face. His glasses were slightly thicker around the frames, much like his belly, which looked to slime over his pants and belt buckle. Lucky thing his green shirt was large enough or that would have been a nauseating sight to behold.
The man sitting at the table put down his book and looked at his watch. Nine-twenty in the evening. Seventeen minutes after he was supposed to clock back in from lunch at nine o'two. "Damn!" He stood up, put on his jacket, reached across the table, and put on his leather "Indiana Jones style" hat. Sliding the book back into his pocket, he looked to his friend the timekeeper, still standing across the wall from him, "Thanks, Joe, would've probably put on an extra hour just reading. That would piss off Kevin real bad." He spared time for a laugh as he walked out of the lunch area and into the back hallway of the store.
Walking behind him, Joe chuckled, "You know, Jack, maybe you can just cut yourself open like in your book just to say you're sorry."
"I do that and when Kevin's off work, you'd havta deal with your boss not being around to open the truck doors for you." Jack spat back with half-hearted enthusiasm.
Searching his pocket opposite the one with his book, he pulled his nametag and swiped it through the time clock. Beep. Back on the clock. He looked at his nametag with causal notice. Jack Mitchel, Receiving manager for Shop-Mart, cheapest goods for the best prices. He groaned. He did not want to run a crew of knucklehead truck unloaders. He did not mind the job he had, the hours were fine for a guy with nothing to sufficiently call a life. Get up, go to work, go home, go to sleep, that was about it. The pay kept a roof over his head and food in his gut, and his crew was an alright bunch when he wasn't giving orders. Jack didn't like that. Giving orders made him feel like he was above the four others he worked with, and that was a feeling he never condoned in himself. That kind of arrogance was something Jack Mitchel accepted as part of his being, as well as selfishness, egotism, self-indulgence, and so on, but he absolutely refused to let those aspects of the human persona overcome him. Honor was important, compassion was not a weakness, and doing what was right came above even his own life, or so he believed. Having this job also meant he had to stay in one place and never experience he open lifestyle of a vagrant, or a wanderer. To put his morals to the test. This troubled Jack, as the question of the durability of his beliefs was always at arms length from his heart.
{A fighter in olden days,} he thought, {when a man of old virtues would be worth something in the fates thread line. When the skills of a sword would be a better asset than a gun any day.}
They were crossing the corridor to the layaway department when Joe stopped. Jack didn't notice since he was walking slightly faster so he was farther ahead. "Hey Jack, I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm gonna go to the bathroom and blow it out my ass." He said in a matter-of-fact way that Joe noticed always made Jack laugh. {Seems telling a joke is the only time that kid ever smiles. When is he gonna find some happiness in his life outside a bad joke?} He thought to himself.
Jack turned back with a grin on his face, "Okay. See you in a few. Don't strain or you might tear something," He softly laughed to himself and continued his travels to the Receiving Area.
A blond-haired beauty passed Jack's field of view and, always the gentleman, he tipped his hat to her and uttered a humble "Good evening, miss," and continued on his course. {Just eye candy for the hormones, sad she's got the personality of an eggplant, and if the choice came I'd take the eggplant hands down.} With that thought through his skull, Jack sighed heavily and lowered his head. He hadn't noticed that he had not stopped walking the entire time, but merely slowed to a snail's speed. He was just now passing into the intersection of the back hallway of the store and the corridor leading into the Shoe Department.
1.1
{That chicken was horrible}, he thought to himself, {Truly nasty and overcooked, like always}, he sighed, {Then again, it was cheap, so I can't complain.} He drew his book, Hagakure: The Way of the Samurai, from the pocket of his army-surplus field jacket and continued reading. No one could understand why the hell a young man, twenty years old and in the prime of his life, would want to sit at a lunch table and read about a society where men would slice open their stomachs for the slightest illusion of dishonor, especially right after lunch. {How could they? Bushido isn't just about chasing death for honor. It was about doing what was right, no matter the cost.} Turning each page and absorbing the knowledge of the ages, time slipped slowly along, until a knocking sound came from his immediate left. His heart jumped and his head turned, eyes widening a little, but he did his best to hide the surprise behind his thin, gray-framed spectacles. The shock turned to recognition as his falsely alleged attacker, standing six-foot-three to his left across from the wall made partially of imitation wood, finally spoke.
"You gonna sit around and read your book or are you going back to work sometime around the year's end?" The sarcasm was rich and thick off his tongue, "You do know your about fifteen minutes late getting back from lunch." His thirty-year-old grin was easy to notice on his dark, stubble- ridden face. His glasses were slightly thicker around the frames, much like his belly, which looked to slime over his pants and belt buckle. Lucky thing his green shirt was large enough or that would have been a nauseating sight to behold.
The man sitting at the table put down his book and looked at his watch. Nine-twenty in the evening. Seventeen minutes after he was supposed to clock back in from lunch at nine o'two. "Damn!" He stood up, put on his jacket, reached across the table, and put on his leather "Indiana Jones style" hat. Sliding the book back into his pocket, he looked to his friend the timekeeper, still standing across the wall from him, "Thanks, Joe, would've probably put on an extra hour just reading. That would piss off Kevin real bad." He spared time for a laugh as he walked out of the lunch area and into the back hallway of the store.
Walking behind him, Joe chuckled, "You know, Jack, maybe you can just cut yourself open like in your book just to say you're sorry."
"I do that and when Kevin's off work, you'd havta deal with your boss not being around to open the truck doors for you." Jack spat back with half-hearted enthusiasm.
Searching his pocket opposite the one with his book, he pulled his nametag and swiped it through the time clock. Beep. Back on the clock. He looked at his nametag with causal notice. Jack Mitchel, Receiving manager for Shop-Mart, cheapest goods for the best prices. He groaned. He did not want to run a crew of knucklehead truck unloaders. He did not mind the job he had, the hours were fine for a guy with nothing to sufficiently call a life. Get up, go to work, go home, go to sleep, that was about it. The pay kept a roof over his head and food in his gut, and his crew was an alright bunch when he wasn't giving orders. Jack didn't like that. Giving orders made him feel like he was above the four others he worked with, and that was a feeling he never condoned in himself. That kind of arrogance was something Jack Mitchel accepted as part of his being, as well as selfishness, egotism, self-indulgence, and so on, but he absolutely refused to let those aspects of the human persona overcome him. Honor was important, compassion was not a weakness, and doing what was right came above even his own life, or so he believed. Having this job also meant he had to stay in one place and never experience he open lifestyle of a vagrant, or a wanderer. To put his morals to the test. This troubled Jack, as the question of the durability of his beliefs was always at arms length from his heart.
{A fighter in olden days,} he thought, {when a man of old virtues would be worth something in the fates thread line. When the skills of a sword would be a better asset than a gun any day.}
They were crossing the corridor to the layaway department when Joe stopped. Jack didn't notice since he was walking slightly faster so he was farther ahead. "Hey Jack, I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm gonna go to the bathroom and blow it out my ass." He said in a matter-of-fact way that Joe noticed always made Jack laugh. {Seems telling a joke is the only time that kid ever smiles. When is he gonna find some happiness in his life outside a bad joke?} He thought to himself.
Jack turned back with a grin on his face, "Okay. See you in a few. Don't strain or you might tear something," He softly laughed to himself and continued his travels to the Receiving Area.
A blond-haired beauty passed Jack's field of view and, always the gentleman, he tipped his hat to her and uttered a humble "Good evening, miss," and continued on his course. {Just eye candy for the hormones, sad she's got the personality of an eggplant, and if the choice came I'd take the eggplant hands down.} With that thought through his skull, Jack sighed heavily and lowered his head. He hadn't noticed that he had not stopped walking the entire time, but merely slowed to a snail's speed. He was just now passing into the intersection of the back hallway of the store and the corridor leading into the Shoe Department.
1.1