A/N: As I watched 24 this week, I couldn't help but wonder what Jack was like in everyday situations. Then this happened. Enjoy!
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"Okay," Jack murmured as he wrestled a shopping cart from the cluster at the front of the supermarket, "I need apples, shredded cheese, Ho-Ho's, and Mr. Pibb. No more, no less. If I stay focused, complete my appointed duties, and guard my camp, I just might make it out of here alive." You may be discharged, but you never quit Special Forces.
The produce section was located nearest to the front of the store, so that's where Jack went first.
"Apples, apples…" He whispered, as if reminding himself to not get distracted and make a bunch of impulse purchases. Not after last time, when he bought two 128 ounce bags of barbecue potato chips and a 10 gallon drum of coffee grounds.
At last, he arrived at the kiosk/soap box in which the apples were located. Jack began perusing the large pile.
But then, disaster struck. Jack began to notice that these apples were pocked with black spots; bug bites. These apples were organic. At this realization, Jack violently recoiled with a choked gasp. Something had to be done about this. If there was one thing Jack hated more than human rights, it was inaccurate fruit labels.
He left the cart and stomped toward the customer service desk, which was painted top to bottom in beige; a pathetic attempt to calm the angry customers with soothing, unobnoxious colors. Good thing Jack had built up an immunity to beige.
Jack now arrived at the desk. A dopey teenager was standing guard, absentmindedly flipping through a tabloid. Jack waited a couple minutes for the teenager to notice him before clearing his throat loudly. The teenager's head snapped up, much like a gazelle at the snapping of a twig.
"Yeah?" The teenager grunted.
"Yes," Jack said, "Those apples are mislabeled. They're organic."
"No, they aren't."
"Uh, yes, they are."
The teenager scoffed.
"What does it matter?"
Jack switched to his menacing raspy whisper voice that he usually only brought out for work.
"Listen, dipshit, bugs carry all kinds of diseases. Only the finest immune systems can handle organic. They must be labeled properly, lest the person with bad kidneys should buy one and die. This could be considered biological warfare. Do you hear me? Someone could fucking die."
"…that is not true. And who the hell uses the word 'lest' anymore?"
Jack's patience was wearing thin.
"Just get a marker and write 'organic' on the sign."
"I don't wanna." The teenager whined. Jack now proceeded to pull out his gun and pistolwhip the kid across the face. He hit the floor with an audible 'thud'.
Jack bent down to look the teenager in the face.
"Listen," he checked the nametag, "Kyle. This is the customer service desk. I am the customer. Service me now."
"You're a fucking lunatic! And you stole that from Role Models!"
Jack grabbed Kyle's arm and snapped it with the ease of a chopstick, causing Kyle to wail in pain.
"I don't plagiarize." He said, pulling a marker out of his pocket, "Go. Adjust. The sign."
Shakily, Kyle rose to his feet and hobbled to the kiosk/soap box. He slowly scrawled "organic".
"See how easy that was?" Jack said, a slight grin on his face. Kyle whimpered and returned to his lair. Jack, basking in the glow of victory, returned to his cart and trotted away. He could faintly hear Kyle sobbing. Today was a good day.