SEARCHING FOR THE PERFECT PAINT
By Argeon
The Mann Co. Store is almost always open down in Teufort and awaiting customers with money to spend, unless the shopkeeper was shot and needed to be replaced again. The average workers life expectancy was somewhere around one to two weeks working at Mann Co, relatively decent compared to work on the battlefield, but not much of an improvement. Such was the risk of taking a job in the midst of bat-shit crazy mercenaries with more hats than brain cells, but the unsuspecting men and women gladly took up the job. Today, a man named Franklin stood behind the overly-glossy wooden counter and counted the minutes until his shift would end. So far, Franklin had been on the job the longest of any former worker – four weeks and two days. It had been somewhat quiet today – a few phone calls from the administrator and some new items delivered. Franklin himself wasn't a smart man by any standards, but he determined that today must be a special day. Usually several customers would come and at least two of them would threaten to hurt him, sometimes even more firing a warning shot aimed at his head, but today was different. It was as if something was bound to change for Franklin. After all, such a peaceful day could not just be plain chance, right?
Well, Franklin was certain about that. He ran his slender fingers through his slightly sweaty flattop and breathed out a sigh of relief. He took out a rag from his back pocket and began to wipe down the unused counter. Smiling to himself, he cherished every moment of this dull and mundane activity as if it meant the world to him. He swayed side to side, humming softly and unnecessarily wiping the counter. A few minutes after doing this activity, he examined his work and placed his hands on hips, as if he had accomplished something worthwhile. If anything, his biggest accomplishment in that small room was being able to come to the shop twenty-nine days consecutively. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at the clock.
5:56
Just a couple more minutes and Franklin would be free from this pathetic thing he called 'job'. He spun around and stood face-to-face with the half-assed shelves filled with junk that the mercs bought with hard-earned money. There were some posters up, some merchandise-related, some propaganda posters back from the War! Contest, several rows of paint buckets, a couple of dusty hats that no one cared about, a little mountain of shiny keys, and pile of weapons that kept growing and growing as time went by. Now, if Franklin had any motivation or the store was anywhere close to being legal, Franklin would've attempted to sort out the mess of merchandise. However, neither of the criteria was met so Franklin shrugged of that duty. Just as he was about to close the shop, the door smashed open and a peculiar fellow entered the shop. Franklin nearly defecated from fear and rage, but forced the cheesiest smile with his last remaining effort.
"He-e-llo Pyro! What can I get you today?"
The Pyro appeared to be in a jolly mood, which calmed Franklin down ever so slightly, but he kept his guard up. The Pyro was known to have killed the most shopkeepers – seven in total, if you count all the 'accidents'. The first to go was a man named John. Poor fellow got himself burnt to a crisp after he refused to give away keys for free. The second and third to go were: a young woman, around the age of Miss Pauling named Linda and a distant relative of the Scout named Rick. Both Rick and Linda got peppered with pellets after customer service went a little pear-shaped. The rest were either accidently strangled or beaten to death in some convoluting fashion. Franklin leaned to the counter slightly to cover up a T-chart that had tallies scratched into the wood for each of the mercenaries, keeping track of how many shopkeepers each one of them killed. The tradition was that the newly-employed workers would have to find out and scratch in a tally for who killed the previous shopkeeper. It was kept very secret, mainly due to the fact that if the mercs would find out, they'd probably start competing against each other.
"Mmmph!"
"Mmm, yes. I see." Franklin said as he muzzled the beard that wasn't there. He looked over the merchandise and then back at the Pyro. People use the expression 'time is money' when they talk about business. Franklin had a different philosophy when it came down to that. Time for him was key - as more of it passed, the chance of him becoming dead rose at a frightening exponential rate.
"Can you point me to which one you'd like?"
The Pyro desperately pointed at the buckets of paint in the corner. Clearly, paint was something of dire importance. Franklin started poking at all the different paints, trying to figure out which one in specific. Every time he got it wrong, Franklin could tell that the Pyro kept getting increasingly frustrated. Franklin started to look more and more like the shiny counter with sweat. Finally, after pointing at some ten canisters, the Pyro couldn't handle it anymore. Whipping out his flare gun, The Pyro fired at one of the buckets with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth.
Both stared in awe and surprise as the bucket exploded, gushing out red paint all over the shelf and the floor. Franklin's jaw dropped, reaching places where no man had been before, but the Pyro skipped gleefully around. Franklin ran his hands through his hair again and looked at his once-clean shirt. What should've a peaceful ending to a day was becoming more and more chaotic. The clock glared at them, notifying that it was two minutes after six. Franklin rolled his eyes, hands still digging into his hair and wondered why bad things happened to good people. Ironically, Franklin was anything but a good person. He usually snuck out merchandise, took money out of a contraption that resembled a cash register, and came to work a little late – anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour. Franklin's thoughts were cut off by the Pyro who began attempting to communicate.
"I take it that you want that one." burbled Franklin as he stepped over the mess. The Pyro nodded feverishly and jittered side to side, unable to mask the happiness. Franklin's mood was quite the opposite from the Pyro's. Franklin felt scared, relieved, but above all, annoyed as fuck. The paint was seemingly everywhere, meaning that any plans that Franklin had of having fun today were non-existent. The only real policy that enforced at Mann Co. was tidiness of the room, and that was due to the government regulations that were accidently checked a year ago. A man in a professional black suit entered the store and began measuring and recording it. John, who was still alive at the time, roughed him up pretty well and tied him in the back. Later, he was released after being bribed, given medical attention, and several free unreleased Grordbort weapons. The fellow never came back, but Saxton left a memo that the room needed to be in ship-shape just in case. Franklin despised the rule and was ready to burn puppies to get rid of it, but unfortunately he did not have that power.
Examining the empty space, Franklin realized that the last paint canister for that red was blown several seconds ago. Forcing another cheesy smile from god knows where, he turned around and chewed an apology out.
"I'm sorry, but that was our last red Smells like Team Spirit paint. Would you like a Value of Teamwork instead?"
The Pyro stopped jumping around and stood dead still. Franklin got the uneasy feeling that something bad was about to happen, and oh boy was he ever so right in his life. The Pyro reached down and grabbed a fire axe. According to protocol, Franklin should've attempted to calm the aggressor, negotiate, come to a peaceful agreement, and afterwards notify some squeaky-voiced and pointy-haired boss about the situation over the phone, but Franklin couldn't give fewer shits about the protocol. He turned and began sprinting to the backdoor, which was only a few corridors away. The Pyro, not willing to give up for the paint, immediately hurdled over the ever-so glossy counter and began to chase him. Franklin pushed off the cemented wall and continued running down the tight and darkened hallway. He knew that if that he stopped for a split second, he would start running again. Heavy footsteps followed him as the Pyro charged with an axe overhead, ready to chop Franklin up. Usually, getting from the actual store to the back was no big deal, but this time it proved otherwise. The mess that Franklin consistently ignored had piled up over the weeks past and was beginning to trouble him. Empty paint cans and old weapons he never bothered to organize prevented him from running as quickly as he could. Franklin would've been delighted to beat the living crap out of something with the frustration he was under, but his will to live was too strong. Another turn and salvation was just a corridor down. His death was also several steps behind him, charging at him like a bullet. A couple more steps and Franklin would be out!
With the next step, Franklin accidently kicked a bucket, completely throwing him off-balance. It happened all so quickly that Franklin didn't even have time to react before he face-planted into the filthy asphalt floor. Franklin instantaneously thought back to what just happened. What could've the best day of his life was about to become his last, and why? Why would this happen to him? What did he ever do to anyone? Apart from being a massive prick, he had absolutely nothing to deserve this. Franklin felt a funny sensation in the back of his head and his misery was abruptly stopped. A sharp blow from an axe made quick work of his thick skull. Blood quickly flushed over Franklin's head, pooling underneath his head. The Pyro kneeled beside the lifeless body and touched the blood with his glove.
Red.
Almost like Smells like Team Spirit Red.
The Pyro looked around for something to collect the blood with. In the distance, a bucket was slowly spinning around in circles.