Play it cool Jamison, it s you or ya groceries. Metal doesn t fill much more than some drongos skull, not a genius s stomach.
Getting groceries seems like an everyday task, but for our law-breaking, building-shaking, country-devisating criminal Jamison Junkrat Fawkes, it was a mission that required all the skill and finesse he possessed. This included: not blowing people up for looking at him weirdly, not muttering to himself about how great yesterday s explosions looked from his hideout, but most important and crucial of all: wearing clothes. Junkrat hated wearing anything that couldn t hold something combustible, even his shorts contained packets of gunpowder to use. He had decided on a black cotton t-shirt (he could light it on fire) to cover up.
Walking to the store in question, he made no bloody effort to hide the peg-leg limp. Instead, he sauntered about on it, twisting and turning around using it. It woulda been graceful if it wasn t bein done by a man who looked as if three tonnes of nitroglycerin hadn t tried to make a baby with the world's most resilient woman. Turning the corner with any shred of dignity vanishing as he ate shit on the sidewalk, glancing upwards to see the rusted, old supermarket in question. It seemed to be called Ols , but two letters had been removed, either by some punk raider needing a sweet new decoration or the passage of time. It was Junkrat. Hideouts just need that criminal touch to look truly menacing y know?
Waltzing out of the heat and into the stale heat, he noticed a few guards pacing around. Guards were a fuckin overstatement. The bloody numbskulls had been hired by the cheap-ass who ran the store to make an example of any thieves, petty thuggery that Junkrat wouldn t even have to glance at. Probably because the second they recognized him, he d be thrown out gently. Gently using gunfire and various flamethrowers. Not fun. You re getting distracted ya Class A Goldfish, get to the point and get some food. Roadie gave ya a list this morning right? Bet you lost it on the way here. Junkrat pulled out a half-scorched list of items he would need for the next week. He was sick of irradiated plants. They usually bit back.
Walking among the aisles looking for his first item, he noticed all the shelves had been nailed to the ground. This would ve been odd, if he hadn t used one of these for cover as he cooked up a delicious cocktail of brimstone and death, with a hint of cinnamon. They really should ve listened to his debate on the pricing of pork. Pork! He found the fancy flesh in no time at all, as it was one of the few products actually in a fridge. Seemed quite fresh too! It was still glowing mildly, meant it was a few days old. Perfect for a nice stew!
Grabbing down some bread-that-should ve-been-stacked-worse, a voice perked up. Oi. Junkrat froze. Glancing up at one of the thugs who d been eying him up since he stumbled in. He knew it, he just couldn t go back so soon, he d been caught! A plan quickly arose. Use the gunpowder to weaken the support beams and bring down the store? Knock out this guy and keep on shopping like nothing happened? Did he have enough charisma to weasel his way to the top of the food chain and become the boss of the whole gig? Plenty of solid plans, but he needed the food too. He can t make bombs outta ham, bread, vegetables and spreads. Never would have enough zazz. While all this was going along in Junkrats convoluted mind, the nameless thug (let's call him Greg. I fuckin hate a Greg.) sighed. Mate, you just dropped this when ya walked in. Greg stated as he handed Junk some scraps of metal that must ve snaked their way outta his pocket. No littering in this store, you ll fucking find out what happens if I see it again. Greg says, cracking his neck to show authority. Junkrat didn t register half of that, too busy deciding if mayo is more combustible than lettuce. Ah! Cheers mate, been lookin for these lovelies! Can t ever have too much scrap. Junkrat giggled.
Torbj rn Lindholm perked up. It was as if a primal urge had been triggered. With a solemn glare out his workshop door, he went back to designing the world's most subtle stilts.
Keeping his wonky pace, Junk found his third set of items, spreads! Mayo, BBQ sauce and Soy. The mayo hadn t even expired yet! Staching them in his fanny pack, he wildly spun around to see a drifter slowly pacing towards the final lettuce on the shelves. This was unacceptable. That lettuce was necessary. How could he perform his life s work without the right nutrients powering his twitchy physique? His high IQ mind inventing new ways to explode? And this man was trying to stop it. Dashing towards the dirty (but still cleaner than him) man, he reached into his pockets to bring out the gunpowder. He saw no other way to do this. He had to end it right here. Right now.
After a civil discussion for around 17 and a half minutes, Jamison left the aisle one satchel of gunpowder lighter, but two lettuces and a feeling of satisfaction of meeting someone as bat-shit crazy as he was.
The unthinkable had happened. Junkrat was walking free! Taking the items out of his fanny pack to pay, he was beaming with pride and a little bit of fire, he had been a normal member of radioactive society! When he got back to the hideout, man there would be a celebration fireworks show the likes of which he had really felt like doing since last week.
Wait, did you forget to bring anything to trade in for those groceries?
Ah well, it had gone pretty good.
At least now Junk could see how well this shirt lit on fire.
But as he pulled it off hurriedly to light tf up, the shopkeep grabbed it. Inspecting every poorly made stitch as if his life depended on it.
Yea, that ll do. They say as the groceries get packed into a corner of the counter, ready for Junkrat to package into his package. Confused and blue-boomed, he grumbled as his fanny pack was loaded and ready to rumble. Good one. He mumbles as he walks out of the store, back around the corner towards home.
Holding back tears, he slowly limps back. Lighting up that supermarket would ve been a BLAST, but now he just gets to walk home and prepare sandwiches with Roadie. In Junks mind, this was an abysmal failure. Sure, social interaction was his worst feature since unrelenting giggles, but at least giggles usually accompanied booms. Even if he could blow up some poor farmers shed on the way, nothing would ve compared to detonation of a pre-war building. Then again, he still needed to figure out what was more combustible, lettuce or mayo?
He decided the perfect test would be on the Queen of Junkertowns kitchen tomorrow. Maybe Roadie would like a bit o fun too?