I really don't see why I had to get myself a part-time job here of all places; I mean, I don't even like chicken, and when it comes to food, I'm a disaster area. Being in the firing line of the Junta would be a lot less painful than serving customers half the time, but money to repair my guitar has to come from, like, somewhere.

Then again, it was either this or a job in the Hypermarket and the HM doesn't even offer any goods discounts; the free chicken also helped in winning me over, of course. Oh well, time to serve some more customers.

"Who's next, please?" I proclaim, not taking much notice of who's in the line; the worst case scenario would probably be some elderly dude who hasn't turned his hearing aid up properly, which means me shouting everything at him like I'm some kind of sound-challenged lunatic.

Oh wait...something, or someone, much worse is staring at me.

"Hey, Lothar! Think you could hook us up with some of the good stuff?"

"Scott, I told Kerry not to let any of the clan, like, visit me during work, especially not you."

"What happened to customer service?" He asks, with that stupid, devious look he always has on his face. "In here, I'm always right, so it may help to remember that."

Seriously, that guy may have parts of a star around his eye, but if he keeps this up he'll soon be, like, seeing them. Speaking of eyes, out of the corner of mine I spot a familiar, shirt-and-tie figure keeping an eye on the chicken in the deep fat fryer; only Mr Thomas could dip his finger into the burning grease and lift it to his lips without so much as blinking an eyelid. My boss is such a, well, boss, and he so doesn't take shit from anybody.

Just the kind of guy to deal with Scott.

"Mr Thomas!"

"What is it, Lothar?" He asks, staring me down somewhat, and seeming quite irked at being pulled away from duties just to tend to some prickish-looking male. "Is he someone special?"

"Scott Anderson, pleased to meet ya!" He suddenly chirps, jumping over the counter and almost crushing my toes with his heavy, black boots; one hand out to Mr Thomas in the shaking gesture, whilst the other's rubbing under his own nose in that awkward, anime-esque way. Oh please let my boss be one of the few who, like, sees past his chirpy bullshit.

"Well, we've certainly heard a lot about you, Scott," my boss replies, shaking his hand. "If the stories are true, you've certainly got a lot of spirit."

He's acting nicely enough, but he soon dons a rather unimpressed expression as he releases his grip on my clanmate.

"However, if the stories are true it also means you're nothing but a troublemaker. I'd get back behind that counter and leave this joint if you know what's good for you."

Scott's grin soon disappears shortly after Mr Thomas' warning; leaping back over the counter and landing with a rather disheartened thud, I almost feel sorry for him. I'll happily watch the likes of Ash or Buckler start having a hissy fit at him, but it just doesn't seem right when a STRANGER sets him straight like that.

"At least, like, let me take his order," I say, doing my best to sound brave in the face of my boss. "Troublemaker or not, he has still money."

Hah...his ears immediately pricked up at the 'm' word, and he's snapped out of his snarling, warning tone just for the moment.

"Fine, but you have to sit with him."

Of all the people I, like, want to sit with, Scott's name will so never be on the list; yet I find myself forcing a smile upon my face and insisting to Mr Thomas that it's no problem whatsoever. But I can't afford to keep my attention on my boss for too long, as Scott's already thrown himself at the nearest booth and now has those heavy, dirty boots getting dirt, like, all over the leather seats.

"You'd better make this quick," I mutter, not even bothering to waste any energy in trying to speak up as I sit down on the other side of the booth.

Unsure whether he's doing it just to annoy me or he truly can't wait any longer, Scott immediately begins to devour the contents of the bucket; even daring to reach over and grab the fleck of fried chicken skin that 'flew' onto my arm.

"You're one sicko prick," I mutter, but he's too involved with acting like a complete animal to hear me. However, it soon seems he's not too busy to stare at me in that annoying way of his.

"Hey Lothar, are you aware of the Seafood diet?" He asks, his eyes lighting up in a very mischievous manner.

"I swear, if you open your mouth and, like, show me your lunch, I'm so taking this entire chicken bucket and shoving it up your ass."

"...you're no fun at all," Scott whines, swallowing down what was probably a chewed-up mess, but for once I'm not even listening; my iPod peeping from my trouser pocket, I casually pop the buds into my ears and turn up the Dragonforce to drown out his nonsense.

"Ozzy!" He then exclaims, right down my ear after having moved the protective bud. I swear the guy's on rapid-fire, annoyance mode today, it's like he's instantly picking up on every single moment available to try and make me snap. Ugh, he also thinks he's being clever (you know, with my surname being close to Osbourne. I'm just missing the u) but he's simply the latest in an overgrown list of those who find the need to point out the obvious.

"Prick," I retort, pretending to mutter but making it clear that I wanted him to hear it. However, it seems he's too busy with scoffing down the chicken to hear me, though after a while he swallows down his mouthful and is now looking at me in a rather sheepish manner.

"Lothar?"

"What?"

The fact that Scott's, like, calling me by my actual name has gotten me suspicious already. He goes silent for a moment as he tears off another bit of the chicken with his teeth, before turning his attention to me again after his next mouthful.

"...Lothar?"

"What?"

"I just remembered...I'm gonna need to borrow a few clintz from you. You know, since I was hoping to score some free chicken because you work here."

Oh.

My.

Gawd...

...I so totally knew he was going to try and pull that!