The small bronze bell chimed, signaling the arrival of a customer. Ali Hassan looked at the security monitor on the table in the backroom where he was interviewing a potential employee. He noticed the two men walk in with hoods pulled up. He pats the hopeful prospect on the head and she raises her eyes to meet his. "Is there a problem?" He looks down at the young woman on her knees on the filthy linoleum tiled floor, "Get up. Interview's over. I'll call you after I get a few more interviews done." The girl shamefully rises and pulls her t-shirt back on. Ali adds, "Get your stuff and go out the back door…NOW!" She gathers her things and rushes out past the safe into the alley behind the Brownbaggers.
Hassan leans on the table and intently eyes the two men walking through the store. The shorter one is wearing a black generic hoodie and baggy jeans. Hanging out of his back pocket is a black bandana. A bright yellow hood attached to a leather jacket also shrouds the taller one's face. His chino pants are neatly pressed, a golden wallet chain hangs lazily at his side. Every other link of the chain is a small skull which glints brightly as he walks around the store. He stands in front of the camera and points into it. Hassan is taken aback from the brashness of the individual. With a curling finger, he summons the clerk to the sales floor. Ali takes a hard swallow and stuffs the chrome revolver into his belt. Comforted by the weight in the small of his back he smoothes down his hair and adjusts his zipper. He stands in front of the storeroom's door and takes a deep breath.
As the door swings open, the short man walks over to the front door and works the lock. "Hey, you can't lock that man. I'm still open." Ali pleaded with him but was only answered with the familiar click of the lock and a blank face. The tall man walks over to where Ali was standing and rested a hand on the shopkeeper's shoulder. He gave Ali a moment to, hopefully, realize the situation he was in. Moreover, it seemed that the severity of this visit was dawning on him. "Ali, please sit down." The tall man guided the trembling clerk to the stool behind the counter. Ali's mind raced. Why haven't they pulled guns yet? Who are these assholes? It's okay. I'll be okay. I still have my-. As he was being comforted by the thought of the snub-nose stuffed in his belt the tall man reaches back and pulls it out. He calmly places it on the counter next to the register. He sucks his teeth and walks around the counter leaving Hassan alone within arm's reach of the piece. The tall man, walking slowly, admires the shop.
"Ali Hassan," he begins in a reminiscent tone, "I remember when I was a little boy walking into this very building. Except back then it was not a Brownbaggers. It was a little shop owned by Mr. And Mrs. Eugene Johnson. I remember Gene would always have candy to hand out to all the neighborhood kids and Mary Beth would bake cookies right around the time we received our report cards. If I remember correctly, one cookie for every 'A'." The tall man laughed at his own musings. Ali was beginning to relax when it finally hit home that this was not a robbery. With a bit of courage he mustered up he spoke, "Listen brother, I don't know what this has to do with me but," The tall man interrupts "We'll get to that part in a second Mr. Hassan. First, let me finish with my history lesson. So where was I? Ah, yes. See, the Johnsons were everything that was right with Stilwater. They were what little boys and girls aspired to be. Then the gangs showed up." The tall man's mood suddenly grew darker. The tension began to build in the small shop. The short man left his post at the front door and walked to the register. Ali reached for the pistol but was stopped cold as a 9-inch hunting knife pinned his hand to the counter. Ali let out a scream as the pain raced up his arm. The short man slowly moved the blade back and forth. Hassan fell from his stool and was on his knees behind the counter. Tears streamed down his face. He sobbed, "What the hell did I ever do to you?" The tall man let out an incredulous gasp. He leaned over the counter and stared into Ali Hassan's bloodshot eyes. "What did you ever do? That is the problem Ali. You did many things. See, Gene and Mary Beth were butchered, like animals, in their shop. Their bodies lay in the very spot where your tears are falling. Why? No one knows. They were robbed and the filth that did it thought it would be fun to hack them up. No one cared. No one tried to stop the gangs that now rule this city. Scum like you Ali. Garbage that lets a gang like the Saints, buy your business in return for protection." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blood soaked purple bandana. With his left hand, he pulls back on Ali's hair, jerking his chin up. With his right, he holds the grisly trophy up to the clerk's face. "This, Ali Hassan, is the protection that you sold your soul for. Murderous, greedy, blasphemous devils!" Ali's eye's shot back and forth between the two men. The short one dug a small plastic bottle out of his pocket. His assailant looked at the container and its clear contents and then turned back to Ali. A smile crept to his lips. "Mr. Hassan, you have chosen to keep company with demons. And now, you will know the pain of associating with Hell."
The small man uncapped the small bottle to reveal a narrow spray nozzle. He raised the bottle and slowly streamed its contents on the terrified storekeeper. Between sobs, Ali smelled the familiar smell of lighter fluid. The fuel mixed with the tears on his cheeks. He tried to scream but his lungs were void of air. It was all happening so fast now. The small man, ceremoniously pouring the fluid. The tall man seemed to be deep in prayer. A golden lighter held in his right hand. His arms spread wide at his sides. Then he looked down at him. The tall man pulled back his hood to reveal his face, Ali Hassan's eyes widened in horror and disbelief. The tall man spoke the last words Ali Hassan would ever hear. "You, my friend, will be the first of many. Our crusade will cleanse this city of its vices. Seek solace in knowing that your sacrifice will inspire other businesses to turn their backs on these 'Saints'. May God have mercy on your soul Ali Hassan." The lighter rolled through the air and found its target. Ali's clothes ignited first. He felt the icy lick of the flames on his chest. Moments later, the burning began. Ali's cries choked on the black smoke rising off his body. The two men watched the clerk burn until he stopped moving. The short man pulled a bottle of beer out a cooler. He unscrewed the cap and poured it on the charred remains on Ali Hassan. He then pulled the knife out of the counter. Hassan's body crumbled under its own weight. In one fluid motion, he tossed the knife in the air, caught it by the blade and threw it across the room where it buried itself in the wall. The two men exit the store through the back. The short man stopping before entering the back to admire the knife protruding from an advertisement. The blade buried between the eyes of a picture of Johnny Gat.
