DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely nothing in this story and I do not intend to make any profits off of this story.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Before I begin, I want to let you all know that this little one-shot was inspired (and is a response) by a prompt by tildessmoo on the Paperpusher Message Board. I could give the title of the prompt but alas, I would be giving away the outcome of the story so I'm afraid you'll have to read on!
All I Wanted Was a Cherry Frooty Pop
What an unusually sweltering evening, even by Lawndale standards, pondered Tom Sloane, casually strolling through the street and observing the ominous sunset: a morbid blend of blood reds with specks of fuchsia. Though the sun was taking its leave, its humid heat still had a strong presence. Tom's favorite navy sweater had clung itself onto his back, beads of sweat trickled their way down his spine. It would only be two blocks before he could replenish himself with a cool treat he had craved all day…
A muted "ping" welcomed Tom as he stepped past the mechanical, sliding glass doors and into the stale white walled convenience store. Florescent lights flickered; trashy tabloids and calorie ridden snacks adorned the racks. The only other person in the ratty store was the acne encrusted cashier; too busy staring at the rotating hot dogs, glistening in grease, to even notice a thing.
Or so Tom thought.
Tom fixated his sea green eyes on the freezer across from the entrance; it was where his Holy Grail of the day was encased: cherry flavored Frooty Pops.
With only the cherry popsicles on his mind, Tom walked towards the tall freezer, completely unaware of another set of footsteps making their way towards his destination. However, these footsteps didn't sound like your average footsteps. Each step had the sound of a metallic tap. Of course, when your mind is preoccupied with food, you tend to fail on noticing crucial details such as unusual footsteps.
As Tom got closer, the rainbow of neon wrappers became clearer. Plenty of yellow wrapping along with green, orange, purple and lime were in plain sight but only one red; the last cherry Frooty Pop. Even more motivation to get the snack he longed for all day.
Once he reached the freezer, Tom was perhaps too eager to grab the frozen treat. He swung the door open a little too quickly, knocking over another young man.
"Argh, son-of-a…" the man growled under his breath.
"Oh, I'm really sorry about that, sir—"
Tom was caught off guard as soon as the man stood back up, rubbing the bruise on his forehead with his gloved hand. He had a build so emaciated that Tom began to wonder if the man had just escaped from a secret concentration camp. His clothing only accentuated his startling figure; a black and white striped shirt with the letter "Z" placed next to a question mark, a black trench coat draping down to the ground, and distinctive boots with steel toed tips like a hawk's talons.
"What are you staring at?" the man cocked his head to the side, shooting Tom a deadly glare.
"Um, well, I'm just wondering w-why you would be wearing a trench coat in this weather…" stuttered Tom, struggling to keep composure.
The man's eyes darted from the freezer to the Frooty Pop clutched in Tom's hand, wrath becoming more and more present with each glance.
"That was the last cherry Frooty Pop wasn't it?" seethed the man.
"I-I'm afraid so," said Tom, slowly being pierced with the man's glare. "B-but, you can have it instead. I-I like the orange Frooty Pops just as well."
A meek smile appeared on Tom's face, though his thoughts indicated otherwise.
Oh god, oh god, just let this creepy bastard buy this load of bullshit and hopefully, he'll go annoy some stupid quarterback.
"Oh, I'm afraid that won't do. You're just as vile and brain-dead as the rest of the shitheads in this fucking appalling town. Staring at me like I'm some kind of beast put on display for your feeble-minded entertainment…" a demented grin crept its way onto the man's gaunt face, pulling out two long sharp butcher's knives from his trench coat.
"Holy shit!" gasped Tom, quivering as his grip on the Frooty Pop in his hand became even tighter. "Listen, um, uh…I'm really, really sorry I got in your way, sir. H-here, y-you can have this!" he timidly reached his arm out towards the fuming man, sweat pouring down his brow.
"Don't think I'd fucking fall for that one!" hissed the man, swiftly slicing the teenager's arm off.
Tom howled in pain, aghast at the sight of blood gushing down on his arm, lying limp on the tiled floor.
"Isn't this a little extreme? It's just a damn popsicle!" protested Tom.
"You know, I've traveled from town to town lately. I've encountered my share of dirty hicks and repulsive city types but I've sucked it up…but then I had to come across this vomit, backwater town! It seems as if every mentally defunct peon were all herded here and forced to procreate mindless quarterbacks and cheerleaders…" ranted the man, plunging his blade into Tom's chest.
"ACK! Wh-what…about…security?" stammered Tom, every word spoken a fight for his life. His eyes wandered to the security camera far off in the corner.
A slow twist of the knife was the only reply to his query.
"Pay attention, gnat! I'm still talking here!! Besides, I already killed an exceptionally moronic quarterback and that horrific cheerleader hanging off his arm. I thought I'd gotten past all you rich kids swimming in snot already but you "sir" proved me wrong…"
The knife dug deeper into Tom's flesh, blood tumbled out of his newly acquired orifice like a waterfall. He struggled to come up with one final quip before it would all come to an end inside a crappy little convenience store.
Dying…over…a popsicle. Th-that's like…a blonde over a shiny scratch 'n' sniff at the bottom of the pool—
His head slumped over, lifeless in defeat.
The man jerked his knife from Tom's chest as he watched his casualty topple to the floor in a pool of their own blood.
While the man cleaned his blade, he eyed the cherry Frooty Pop still in the clutch of the severed arm. The package looked much softer than it did earlier. Surely it was the heat's work that was making the popsicle gradually transform into a little red puddle…easy to be camouflaged amongst the spread of blood slowly turning stale. He scrunched up his nose in disgust; he knew that putrid smell all too well. The last thing he wanted was to have a highly sweetened equivalent slide down his throat.
"Bleh…I think I want some fudge pops…" he murmured.
The End