There's no such thing as a nice hotel in Post Pulse America. Even now,
thirty years later, the effects are still hanging around. At least the
economy isn't in a downslide. Right now, we're sort of at a plateau. There
are jobs, but not enough for everyone. There is money, and most people have
some, but not a lot. But at least there are a lot less people on the street
than there were when I was a kid. I guess these small towns are different,
though. Everyone stares at you, especially when you come roaring through on
a black motorbike. I always do the same thing when I enter a town, find the
nearest hotel as quickly as I can, check in and park my bike in the room,
adding a little security feature in case someone gets greedy. Just a little
something I found on my dad's computer. Then I check out the local store.
They're always the same. If it's not a little mom and pop place, it's some
dirty teenager with a rifle under the counter. Unfortunately, this one's
the latter. Sometimes the teenagers are whiny, and when they see me dressed
in bikers' leather, they start asking questions, like 'where's your bike'
and 'can I see it.' The answer is always no. No one touches my bike but me.
Then there are the idiots who think they're cool and try to hit on me.
Right, like that's ever going to happen.
~~
I step into the store and scope it out. Prepackaged food closer to the door, more expensive items on the far wall. Whoever planned this store was smart. The teen at the counter barely looks up from his comic. Good. I grab a basket and start walking down the first of five isles. There's the usual stuff, boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of pasta. Yuck. I grab one of the boxes anyway. My dad taught me how to make gourmet food out of simple things. The next isle has basic staples. I grab a package of bagels, they're just as good as bread, but don't squish as easy. I was almost out of peanut butter, so I grab a jar of it. The center of the store is a giant cooler. From here, I grab a bottle of water and one of soda, I stop to think about the prepackaged sandwiches, but change my mind when I see something green in one of them. I grab a small carton of milk instead. The ice cream looks good, but there is no way for me to carry it on the bike, so I leave it behind. I look at the frozen microwave dinners, but there are no good ones. They are the easiest to cook over a campfire, because all you are doing is basically thawing them out. At the very bottom of the pile, there is a sweet and sour chicken one. After checking the expiry date, I put it in my basket. Not my favorite, but it will do. I also pick up a package of hot dogs, the only meat that looks edible. The last two isles look like they are filled with practical stuff. I need a bottle of shampoo, so this is where I get it. At the back of the store is a small produce section. A lot of it looks gross, but I manage to get an ok looking red pepper, a couple of apples, my favorite, and a prepackaged stir-fry kit. Hot dogs make a good stir-fry in an emergency. Walking up to the front of the store, I grab a small jar of pickles and a box of instant oatmeal, also easy to prepare over a campfire if need be. At the counter, I pick up two chocolate bars, a box of matches and a magazine. There is a pile of CDs, but nothing good that I don't already have. When I set my basket on the counter, the kid doesn't look up from his comic. I pick it up and thump it a little harder. He looks up annoyed then starts ringing in my stuff. Not going fast enough, I give him a look and he speeds up, a little. The total comes to close to thirty dollars, so I drop three tens on the counter. He looks even more annoyed that I didn't put them into his hand, so I give him an even worse look, he quickly gives me my change, bags my purchases, and I blaze out of there. Dumb-ass.
~~~
~~
I step into the store and scope it out. Prepackaged food closer to the door, more expensive items on the far wall. Whoever planned this store was smart. The teen at the counter barely looks up from his comic. Good. I grab a basket and start walking down the first of five isles. There's the usual stuff, boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of pasta. Yuck. I grab one of the boxes anyway. My dad taught me how to make gourmet food out of simple things. The next isle has basic staples. I grab a package of bagels, they're just as good as bread, but don't squish as easy. I was almost out of peanut butter, so I grab a jar of it. The center of the store is a giant cooler. From here, I grab a bottle of water and one of soda, I stop to think about the prepackaged sandwiches, but change my mind when I see something green in one of them. I grab a small carton of milk instead. The ice cream looks good, but there is no way for me to carry it on the bike, so I leave it behind. I look at the frozen microwave dinners, but there are no good ones. They are the easiest to cook over a campfire, because all you are doing is basically thawing them out. At the very bottom of the pile, there is a sweet and sour chicken one. After checking the expiry date, I put it in my basket. Not my favorite, but it will do. I also pick up a package of hot dogs, the only meat that looks edible. The last two isles look like they are filled with practical stuff. I need a bottle of shampoo, so this is where I get it. At the back of the store is a small produce section. A lot of it looks gross, but I manage to get an ok looking red pepper, a couple of apples, my favorite, and a prepackaged stir-fry kit. Hot dogs make a good stir-fry in an emergency. Walking up to the front of the store, I grab a small jar of pickles and a box of instant oatmeal, also easy to prepare over a campfire if need be. At the counter, I pick up two chocolate bars, a box of matches and a magazine. There is a pile of CDs, but nothing good that I don't already have. When I set my basket on the counter, the kid doesn't look up from his comic. I pick it up and thump it a little harder. He looks up annoyed then starts ringing in my stuff. Not going fast enough, I give him a look and he speeds up, a little. The total comes to close to thirty dollars, so I drop three tens on the counter. He looks even more annoyed that I didn't put them into his hand, so I give him an even worse look, he quickly gives me my change, bags my purchases, and I blaze out of there. Dumb-ass.
~~~