Miles slammed the plastic counter of Wal-Mart's help desk and stared deep into the eyes of the terrified teenage employee. The boy flinched, showing obvious fear as he attempted to calm the magenta-clothed prosecutor. He looked about nineteen, a scrawny kid with thick glasses and freckles that looked as if someone had sprinkled him with mud. He sniffed.
"Uh, sorry s-s-sir. We, uh, don't have any, uh, marshmallow-things. Well, we might, but, uh, I don't know for sure…"
"Then CHECK, you incompetent knave. These are… of the utmost importance to me. I must have a box of Peeps®."
"S-sir, it's October. Aren't those Easter candies?"
"Do not question my methods. Just give me the damn candy."
"Uh, I think they came out with Halloween ones… I'll ask my manager."
The worker muttered something unintelligible into his walkie-talkie as Miles drummed his fingers on the rack of gift cards. Halloween marshmallow candy. What a pitiful person he'd become. Of course, he'd do almost anything for her…
"You called about some candy Pins?" an older man asked, tapping Miles on the shoulder. He had an ugly yellow suit on instead of a uniform, male-pattern baldness with globs of unpleasant black hair shoved messily off to the sides of his head, expensive though small leather shoes, and a laminated name tag clipped proudly to his chest pocket. It read "Maurice Moolah", who was apparently the so-called manager. He spoke in an overly enthusiastic, nasally drawl, giving off an aura of stupidity that could be felt like toxic radiation. It was almost as damaging.
"Peeps®, actually. Marshmallow candy." Miles muttered in response.
"Well, follow me. We'll see what's in the candy aisle."
Miles had the sinking feeling that this was going to take forever.
And so the caravan left, like the cliché characters of a low-budget fantasy movie, into the tunnel-like aisle of treats. They all scanned the racks and shelves, looking for those adorable marshmallows. The trio passed countless bags of cheap chocolate, endless boxes of "fruit"-flavored chewy substances and loads of painfully sour high-fructose something-or-other. But the search would prove futile; there were no Peeps® to be had.
To Miles' relief and displeasure, Maurice had another suggestion. His voice tore his ears like thumbtacks through rice paper.
"We could check the storage room in back! Now THAT'S great customer service!!" Moolah screamed, punctuating his sentence with a Damon Gant-esque clap.
Amongst the swarms of burly workers and large machinery, the prosecutor, manager and lackey had to somehow seek out a box of candy only inches in length. An impossible task, perhaps, but Miles was determined. She'd have that stupid candy if it killed him. It might.
Hours of sifting through the discarded Easter stock of discolored caramel eggs and eternally happy plush rabbits and chicks passed agonizingly slowly. The closest they'd gotten so far was a stuffed animal in the shape of a Peep®, and somehow Miles thought that it wouldn't quite have the same effect.
But, lo and behold, like the puffy, sprinkled glory of an edible Holy Grail, lay the last, pathetic box of pink chick-shaped Peeps®. It sat in the back of a rusty wire shelf, nestled between plastic-wrapped "caramel" asphalt and a misplaced package of party streamers in Mardi gras colors. Miles smiled warmly at the stale confections. He and he alone (if the Customer Service department didn't count) had found them.
Oh, how happy Franziska would be, when he would bring her the candy that she'd been missing all year long. How she would smile before decapitating the marshmallows. Miles hated to admit it, but he was always fond of pleasing people that he'd come to recognize as his superiors. And, in some ways, Franziska had become much more than just superior…
Miles snatched up the Peeps® and ran for the back of the store. He didn't want to be here any longer than he had to.