Chapter 5: How Convenient
This was not a good night to be Mario Lugassé.
It'd all been a simple misunderstanding. Old man Largo was just coming off break, and they'd got to talking, and the jokes started flying, and how was he to know that the boss's dad was a rabbi, a priest, and an Irishman?
And now it was three AM, an hour he thought he'd seen the last of three months ago when he finally, after four months of diligent service, finally escaped the graveyard shift at Largo's 24-Hours-Is-A-Whole-Lotta-Convenience Store. Sunlight! Lunch! David Letterman! And customers! Actual, real, live people who wanted to buy things! And sometimes even talk! Y'know, without wobbling unsteadily, blinking out of sync, or, worse, vomiting? Or, in the case of Mr. Glengarry (the neighbourhood transient), all of the above, if his mile-a-minute recitation of the Zionist-Communist-Fascist-Libertarian-Green Party-Alex Trebeckian conspiracy counted as talk?
"Still," he thought, as he gave his novel another shot, "even Glen would be better than this."
Three AM the worst time of the day. That time when, for perhaps 27 minutes, the entire city went to sleep. The streets cleared, the sidewalks emptied, the flies took a break from their incessant orbits of the Galaxy-brand garbage can in the corner. It was that time 15 minutes after he'd finished sweeping, scrubbing, waxing, and Windexing the store from top to bottom, as the boss required, that time when all the wax, bleach, and alcohol fumes made his nostrils just give up and call it a night.
In theory, this was the perfect time to kick back and relax. Maybe listen to the radio? Take up a hobby? Ah, but the God of Convenience Stores (1) frowned upon such activities. So the light by the counter would act up, flickering like a distant thunderstorm, and Montgomery's All-Night Polka Hour would start up on the radio (stuck on one station). As for hobbies…
He'd tried singing. Back home, he'd wowed the locals at the karaoke bar with his renditions of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," "Sweet Home Alabama," and "Raspberry Heaven." And yet, it all seemed so pointless, serenading the Pringles™ cans with the low, soul-destroying rumble of the refrigeration unit as his musical accompaniment.
Not that the fridge was the worst part. Oh no.
He never noticed it at first. The lights were distraction enough. Then, one night, when he was halfway through Tom Clancy's latest thriller (Green Eggs and Ham), and the fluorescents decided to behave for once, he heard it.
Squeak. Squeak. Sq-squeak.
The hot dog machine, otherwise known as Le Gros Carnival. It's tubes of possibly-meat product gave its mechanisms a permanent, glistening sheen of thick, chunky, glutinous grease, so thick, in fact, that the machine had actually achieved some level of sapience. How else could you explain how it always knew to squeak at the exact moment he reached all the good bits in the book (2) in order to ruin his concentration entirely?
Once, it went a whole five minutes without making a noise. That was a good night.
No, wait. It was a bloody irritating night since the damn thing jammed and caught fire. And he had to clean it with a toothbrush. His toothbrush.
Right on cue, it squeaked again.
Mario gave up, tossed his copy of Max Bolan: Professional Sous-Chef aside, and slumped on the counter, staring out at the black empty known as three AM The lights flickered. The fridge rumbled to life again. "Life…at least it has something to do right now," he thought. He gave the glass counter a perfunctory wipe.
Countless scratch-and-wins looked back at him from under the glass. He sighed. He'd blown his spare cash on the blasted things for months, and had nothing to show from all of it except a severely worn quarter.
"Once," he said to them. "Could you give me a break, just once?" He looked to the heavens. "Huh? How about it? A little break for Mario? Doesn't have to be a miracle? Please?"
Squeak, went the hot-dog machine.
"Thanks. Thanks a lot." He sat on the uncomfortable stump Mr. Largo called a chair and groused. He'd missed Letterman. And Leno. And still had three hours to go yet.
"What kind of maniac wants to buy groceries at three AM, huh?" he cried.
A bell jangled. He jumped. And dared to look.
Could it be…?
A vaguely humanoid silhouette stood in the doorway, radiating menace.
"My god! A…customer?!" he thought. "Damn!" He gaped like a fish. There was something he was supposed to say, or do, now, wasn't there? His mind reeled.
The lights flickered.
…Sharp-edged hair, with bangs like the wings of a gargoyle, perched and ready to pounce…
…Piercing eyes, with a look that brought to mind steel, daggers, and unheard cries in dark alleys…
"And," noted some (very) small part of him, "a pressing need for milk."
"Ah, er, um…welcome?" he stammered.
That look nailed him to the wall. Suddenly, he wished he'd taped Letterman.
It softened, took on a hint of resigned irritation, and then swept slowly from one end of the store to the other. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn the canned meat section cowered as those fearsome eyes prowled past (3). The look fixed upon the dairy section and focused to such laser-like intensity he thought the cheese would explode.
The figure shifted its weight and stepped forward. Thick, heavy, buckled, steel-toed boots stalked across the floor, a dangerous metallic clink accompanying each measured step. A velvet-green cloak, splattered with mud, rustled by the Pringles™ rack, and stopped by the freezer. A hand, surprisingly delicate in appearance, opened it. Cold mist spilled out over the linoleum as the figure scrutinized each jug of milk within it, testing each for expiration date and (apparently) throwing balance. Eventually, the figure settled on one, selected a bag of ice, and stalked towards the counter.
Ice and jug clunked on the counter, then jumped as some force collided with them from underneath.
Mario, slowly, cautiously, and reluctantly, peeked over the edge of the counter, rubbing the back of his head where it'd hit it.
"In a bag, please," said a soft, friendly, utterly non-threatening girlish voice.
Mario yelped.
The figure (a girl?) raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"A bag, yes, yes, of course, right away sir, I mean, ma'am, I mean…uh…" At this point, he remembered that the longer he spoke, the longer this customer would keep looking at him, and threw himself into his work. He reached for the sack of plastic bags, hesitated, and gravitated towards one of the more expensive cloth bags with the company logo on it instead, managing to cram both items into it on the second attempt.
"How much?" she asked.
"€4.95!' he squeaked. To his everlasting horror, his mouth kept going. "We've got a special on milk! Two for one!"
She considered this carefully.
A shotgun roared. The front door exploded. Safety glass washed over the floor. The metal "Open" sign, propelled by ballistic shock, whipped through the air, past the customer, and thudded into the wall-clock behind Mario, vibrating.
The girl didn't flinch; he did.
A huge man with ripped jeans, a ripped vest, ripped biceps, and a double-barrelled shotgun with the word "Ripper" painted on it goose-stepped over the wrecked door, followed by an equally massive male wearing a pistol, goggles, and a bullet-proof vest. They stepped to either side of the door, grinning. A third man, much shorter than the other two, stepped between them, fingering a switchblade. His hair was an oil slick.
Mario gulped. "Uh…h-h-hello…Greaser…"
He inclined his head. "Mario." He slid slickly over the broken glass. "Mario, Mario, Mario." The Ripper followed him, shoulders almost touching the shelves of the snack food aisle.
"What do you want?" said Mario.
"Mister Largo…he's an old man, am I right?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, a bit grey."
"Old. Mind's not what it used to be? Maybe a bit forgetful?"
Mario started to say, "You don't know the half of it," and then remembered the security camera on the left wall. And that Largo could read lips. "Um…"
"See," continued Greaser, with his glittering knife, "if he was, it would explain things. Like why he hasn't remembered his insurance policy lately. Y'know, the one with Mister Pork?"
"Insurance? What insurance?"
Greaser frowned. "His 'Pay Up or We Torch Your Friggin' Store' one, ya moron! Touch that and you're a dead man!"
Mario's hands leapt back from the silent alarm switch.
"Raise 'em!" Mario did so. "Now, empty the till and the safe!"
Mario, sweating bullets ("Bullets, oh God," he thought, looking at the barrel of the Ripper), bent awkwardly at the waist and tried to open the till with his teeth.
"Lower your arms first, you idiot!"
"Yes! Sorry! Sorry Greaser!" The till rang open; Mario emptied its contents into a bag. Greaser snatched it.
"The safe," he said. "Now!"
"I don't know the combination!" wailed Mario.
Greaser made this kind of sucking sound between his front teeth. "Oooh. Too bad. Ripper?"
"(Grunt)?" said the huge man.
"Blow his head off."
"No."
The voice was a delicate flower, wrought of iron.
Greaser's knife hummed in a semi-circle. "Get lost, kid," he growled, "or get cut!" He brandished his knife under her ear.
She glanced at it, sidelong.
It leapt back, parried.
He gave a start.
"I have business here," she said, voice level as a razor. "You are…interfering."
"What the hell are you on, you little freak?" snarled Greaser. "Ripper! Specs!"
"(Grunt!)" they said. The Ripper stepped behind the girl and levelled his namesake at her head. The guy at the door pulled out his revolver and aimed it at Mario, who yelped.
"Stand aside," she ordered.
"You got a death-wish or something?" snarled Greaser.
Her eyes flashed.
"Please, for the love of God, don't kill anyone!' begged Mario.
"Way past beggin' time, Mario," said Greaser.
"I wasn't talking to you!"
The girl glanced at him, and nodded, imperceptibly.
Greaser snapped. "That's it! Kill 'em both! Now!"
"No!" screamed Mario.
The Ripper twitched his trigger-finger.
The girl blurred.
The huge man suddenly doubled over. Mario got a glimpse of his face, twisted in pain, before the girl, now crouched with her heel in his crotch, chopped both hands behind her back, connecting with his arms. Two sticks snapped. His arms went limp. The gun fell. She caught it in mid-air behind her back. The man realized he should be screaming in pain at the exact moment the gun's butt smashed into his jaw, shattering it. He toppled over, and crashed into one of the racks. Tortilla chips and salsa crunched and splattered everywhere.
"What the hell?!" said Greaser.
The man with the goggles, who was a bit swifter on the uptake, recovered from his surprise and re-aimed at her.
The girl whirled in a swirl of green fabric. The shotgun roared, blasting the man through the store's front window.
Greaser's jaw dropped. "Specs! Ripper!"
The girl rested the shotgun against the counter, and cocked an eyebrow in his direction.
He snarled, and charged, knife flashing.
She leaned aside, dodging it effortlessly.
Two hands grabbed his arm and redirected the knife into his left bicep. He howled. An elbow drove into his nose. He fell on his rear.
"Nu beech!" he said, cradling his nose. "Nyile hill nu! Hill nu ghud! Nyh ghunna…"
She took one step towards him.
He slid back three.
"Of your men," she said, softly, "one has two broken arms and a shattered jaw, the other a shattered rib-cage. As for you, untreated, you will bleed to death."
She glared at him. "I have spared your legs, so that you may run. Do so. Do not darken this place again."
Something more fragrant than sweat trickled down Greaser's pants. "Hippeh! Schpeks!"
Two very large men limped out the door and down the empty street.
Greaser took one look at the space they used to occupy, a second at the little girl staring intently at his jugular, and a third at the door.
His feet skidded on the glass as he paused in the doorway. He shook his one functioning arm in the air, revealing a bloodied nose bent perpendicular to his face. "Nyool phay fer dis!" he said. He fled into the night, whimpering.
Mario fainted.
At least, he tried to, but apparently his joints were fused solid with fear.
The girl, stepping neatly over spilled salsa and blood, headed for the back room. A lock splintered. A click. A whir. She returned. Mario saw the security videotape slip into her cloak as she stepped up to the till.
"€4.95?" she asked.
"Glllrk," gurgled Mario.
She nodded, reached inside her cloak, and rummaged around in it. A few wrinkles creased her forehead as her search continued with much slapping of pockets. She paused, perplexed. Suddenly, she slapped her palm against her forehead, and sighed.
"Um…problem?" asked Mario.
"I…cannot pay," she said, defeated.
Mario stared at her. "Uh, you, you don't have to. My treat. For, uh, what you did. To them. Those poor men," he added, with a horrified whisper.
She blinked. "But…this is a market. A place of exchange. There must be payment. A settling of accounts: a good for a good, an eye for an eye. There must be…balance…"
"Look, look," said Mario, wiping away the small waterfall tumbling down his brow, "I'll pay you, yes, and then you pay me, okay? Okay? All nice and even? Okay? Please?"
She studied the fistful of bills he proffered to her. "But…this is too much."
"For the love of God just take the milk and leave me alone!" he howled.
After a moment's thought, she slung the groceries over her shoulder. As she reached the door, she paused, and looked back. "I apologize for the mess," she said.
She stalked off into the night.
Mario slumped, and gasped with relief, clutching his chest. "That's it," he said, "I quit!"
Squeak, went the hot-dog machine.
He sighed, remembering his employment prospects elsewhere in this city. Like it or not, he was stuck here. Here, with its flickering lights, its noxious cleaner fumes, its trash can, and its thundering ball of spit, rage, and chin-stubble that was Mr. Largo.
At this point, he noticed the condition of the store.
"Shit!" he said. "Largo's gonna kill me!"
(Footnotes)
1. Makk-Stohr, he of the 21 arms, and 33 legs, and 18 hands bearing the 18 Sacred Koans (including "No Alcohol to Minors" and "The Cashier Doth Not Have Access to the Safe").
2. Example: "Vice-Commander Ding Chavez "Real American Hero" Cortez holstered his customized M1A1 carbine with under-slung grenade launcher, laser sight, and built-in CD player (standard issue to all Rainbow Splinter Op Centre agents) and said, "I'll have a quarter-pounder with (SQUEAK!) cheese."
3. He did know better, of course. Nothing intimidates Spam™. Nothing.
