Your name is KARKAT VANTAS and you have gotten off on the WRONG FOOT. You are beginning to think you have no right foot, because it seems most of your relationships start off this way. That and you can't dance to save your life.

"Are you serious?" you sneer, glancing between the several offending items in your hands and the dumbass that's renting them.

The idiot's wide smile hasn't faltered, continuing to blind you with extremely white and unfortunately large, protrusive teeth.

"What's wrong with them?" he asks, and even his voice grates on your very sensitive nerves.

You know that gifting people with your extensive opinions on movies is not actually part of your job description (which is a little confusing because you work at HOLLYWOOD VIDEO. You figure if you wanted to do that you should have gotten a job at the LOCALLY OWNED place by the campus, but unfortunately you find FILM STUDENTS equally infuriating as the general public, if not more so).

The aforementioned job description includes:

1. (The NUMBER ONE RULE of customer service) Smile!

This seems to have the opposite of the desired effect on customers so you have schooled your expression into one of mild irritation. Kanaya says it's an improvement on the usual.

2. Staff the checkout counter.
3. Charge people ridiculous amounts of money in late fees.
4. Reshelve returns.
5. The dreaded inventory.
6. Help the poor, brain dead populace who can't tell the difference between horror and thrillers find what they're looking for.

Instead of actually doing any of these, most of your time is spent IMing Sollux through ICQ on the monster of a computer in the break room (somehow you talk to him more using technology than in real life, despite living with the guy. And people call you a recluse) and reading synopsis in the romcom section. Occasionally you nick Faygo for Gamzee, because you are mysteriously the only place in town that sells it, and even though that saccharine shit is going to rot his teeth, you find it hard to say no to him.

So, not a lot of room for the impartation of your knowledge on this matter to the uneducated plebeians.

But this guy is just asking for it. That and it's been a long night, and there is nothing you desire more at this moment than to collapse on your sweet, sweet FLOOR MATTRESS. Complete with QUESTIONABLE STAINS and SAD INDENTS from the previous owner. You don't know who that is. You got it from a free pile on the side of the road. So if you're a little quick to jump the chewing assholes out for awful choices gun, who's really to blame? Not you, that's for sure.

Also, his face is really annoying.

"What's wrong with them? What's right with them would be a better question, because there's not a damn lot. I mean really, 'Honey, I Shrunk the Kids'? What are you, five? I have worked here for a year and I have never seen this checked out. I have never seen it returned. I have never even seen people stop and contemplate it. You know why that is? Because it's a pathetic attempt of a children's movie. This is a film that you see solely in the previews on Disney tapes before forgetting it completely. And before you ask, yes, I have watched it. I wish I hadn't. That's an hour and a half of my life that I can't ever get back."

"And this," you jab a finger sharply at the cover of Ghostbusters 2. "This is an atrocity. Anyone who's a true and devoted fan of the first one would rather pour acid down their throat than endure this more than once. I would watch Ghostbusters over and over until my ass melded to the couch and we formed some sort of semi-sentient suede human hybrid before watching this piece of shit again. See this pompous little asswipe?" You wave the wriggly, peace sign offering ghost around. "That does not look like a well busted extraterrestrial. And Murray, Ramis, Aykroyd and Hudson knew it because their acting was sub fucking par. This entire movie was a marketing move."

You look at the last one.

"And what is this? Fire Birds? Where did you even find this? It looks like a Top Gun remake with Nicholas Cage instead of Tom Cruise. Augh."

An orange tinted Cage in army fatigues stares at you soulfully from under scratched plastic and you grimace back.

"The only reason that I can believe someone would willingly rent these three things in tandem is that they have some undeserving soul tied up in their basement and have selected these as a means of psychological torture. In which case, I pity them. I really fucking do, but I also applaud the genius of their captor because these are some really mind-numbingly terrible movies. Congratulations on your excellent choice in torture devices because watching more than five minutes of any of these is enough to drive someone certifiably, worthy of institutionalization, bat shit insane."

You finish and you are a little winded (Terezi gave you trophy declaring you the champion of the longest rant without breathing. It sits lovingly on your desk and you cherish it deeply).

You realize you have failed the requirement of a professional attitude in the workplace. You glance from the movies to the victim of your kind of inappropriate ranting and find that his smile seems to be even wider than before, eyebrows pushed up into a mop of hair that looks like it's been cut sort of funny and too short in some places and has almost enough unruliness to rival your own. But not quite. The guy doesn't have the coarse ethnic thing going for him. Your crown is secure.

Anyways, he obviously wasn't disturbed too badly. This is actually a little unsettling, as the most common responses to your tirades range from astonishment and scandalization to outright anger. Your friends just ignore you. They've had sufficient time to acclimate.

It's only after you start comparing the color of his eyes

(blue blue blue ridiculously fucking blue you didn't even know they made eyes that color)

to blue raspberry Fruit Gushers

(brilliant blue FCF, blue 1, E133, 42090, goddammit you need to stop memorizing shit off of packaging when you're bored that's not fucking normal)

that you realize you've been staring at each other for maybe a little bit longer than really necessary.

He pushes up his glasses at the bridge with his index and middle finger. Your lips part and you inhale, but before you can say something, you don't really know what, just like all the other shit that comes out of your mouth, you hear "VANTAS!" barked from behind you in the tone that all expendable employees of corporate companies have come to fear from the depths of their impoverished souls.

It appears your MANAGER has also noticed the mistake.

You turn slowly and behold the face that has been hardened by many years of CUSTOMER SERVICE and know the true terror of your job (or life) hanging in the balance.

Your manager is a dour little man (not unlike yourself) who wears stuffy suits and doesn't look half as suave as he would like to in them. He is partial to old black and white crime films and slasher movies. He steals and eats all the Scottie Dogs and then blames it on his staff, threatens them with lawsuits, and has set the microwave on fire four times in the past nine months. Presumably by accident, though you are not so sure. Your manager's name is JACK NOIR.

"Language like that isn't tolerated in the workplace, Vantas, and especially not in front of a customer."

You shrink before his managerial stare and resist the urge to abscond. You really, really do not want to be FIRED.

"Sorry, sir," you say weakly.

It is then that the blue eyed fuckwad decides to open his stupid, malformed mouth, probably sealing your fate and banishing you to the grease blistered, garishly colored nightmare that is the FAST FOOD INDUSTRY.

[Help him, John, you're his only hope.]

"Actually," he interrupts in that moronic voice. He sounds like the goddamn protagonist of something on Cartoon Network that Tavros and Gamzee like to watch. Foster's Home for Imaginary Dipshits. Fanny Phantom. Whatever.

You and Jack turn to look at him and he pushes his glasses up again in that aggravating anime trash way (his glasses are thick, black framed and rectangular, they magnify his eyes in a way that's almost, okay, yes it is, too much and incredibly dorky, he must have really bad eyesight, his fingers are long and skinny and have knobby knuckles, stop checking him out, seriously, of all times-). You see his eyes (Twizzler Jolly Rancher blue) dart down to the name tag pinned to the offensively red shirt that makes up your uniform. "Karkat and I are buddies. He was just offering his enthusiastic but definitely wrong thoughts on my choice in movies. So it's okay."

You stare at him in disbelief. Jack glowers at him suspiciously. "You two know each other?" he asks.

"Oh yeah, we go waaaay back," he drawls it out and then gives you a pointed look. You turn to Jack and nod your head perhaps a tad too vigorously.

Jack still looks doubtful, probably weighing the effort of doing something about your misconduct against how much he gives a shit. The odds appear to be in your favor. "Alright. Watch your mouth next time, Vantas," he says sharply, and skulks off to make someone else's life difficult.

You let out your breath in an audible sigh of relief and the guy starts laughing behind you. It's very obnoxious and loud and totally not endearing.

"You should have seen your face when he said your name!" he gets out between breaths.

You give him the glare that tells people you're fantasizing about their murder. "Just take your fucking movies and get out of here," you snarl, a bit quieter, in case the boss man is still lurking. You scan the barcodes with your laser and the machine emits three beeps.

"What, no thank you?" He leans in a little and you get an eyeful of his moronic, perfect face. He smells like girly laundry detergent. He's very tall.

"You're holding up the line," you say, and shove the movies into his hands. Your fingers brush and you jerk back.

"There's no line," he points out.

"Wow, really? I couldn't fucking tell. I was hoping you'd take the hint and leave, but I should have realized your amoeba sized intellect wouldn't be able to grasp such nuances."

"You don't even want to know the name of your valiant savior?

At a loss for words, you simply stare at him as if you cannot physically comprehend how someone can be such an imbecile. He tucks his movies under the opposite arm and sticks out a hand to shake.

"John Egbert," he wiggles his fingers around while still wearing that thick-witted expression. You have a sneaking sense he's being deliberately antagonistic.

After a minute of you not offering up your hand, he takes his back (you wonder if he plays piano). "Nice to meet you, Karkat. I like your name. Beep beep meow," he beams.

"And what the fuck kind of name is Egbert anyways?" you grumble. "Seriously, piss off. Now."

You watch as he shrugs and turns to go, scowling at his stupid scuffed up high-tops, and his stupid jeans that hang off his stupidly long, scrawny legs, and his stupid geeky t-shirt (you appreciate the Casablanca reference, but always hated geometry) You wait until he is safely out of the building before digging your hands into your hair and groaning. You feel the strong urge to hit something, a common response to dealing with morons, albeit very attractive ones. You scan the store for Jack before giving into the urge to escape to the break room five minutes early. No one is usually here at this time of night anyways. Calliope can handle it.

The computer is waiting patiently for you to have your minor emotional breakdown. You log on at the speed of light.

9:45:01 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX
9:47:32 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX
9:52:24 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX
9:53:06 PM carcinoGeneticist: SOLLUX I HAVE A PROBLEM. IT IS A VERY SERIOUS ONE. WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE DOING THAT TAKES PRECEDENCE OVER MY VERY SERIOUS PROBLEM.

9:58:29 PM twinArmageddons: je2u2 chrii2t CG we all know you have a 2eriiou2 problem.
9:58:35 PM twinArmageddons: what the fuck do you want ii'm tryiing two make rent.

9:58:45 PM carcinoGeneticist: THIS IS SO MUCH MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR MENIAL HACKING JOBS.

9:59:07 PM twinArmageddons: you're ju2t jealou2 you can't code worth shiit man.

10:00:00 PM carcinoGeneticist: I THINK I MIGHT HAVE JUST MET THE LOVE OF MY LIFE.

10:03:67 PM twinArmageddons: oh for fuck2 2ake.