"Ha! It totally is you, dude!" The teenager chortled excitedly, turning his phone over and holding the screen out at the increasingly agitated beagle.
"Yes, alright, it does appear as such. May I have my receipt now?" He sighed in response, crossing his paws and glancing over at the admittedly short line of people waiting behind him.
Not that it had been of any concern to the teen whom, by all accounts, would be far too young to recognise the dog, let alone be at all familiar with his bygone days on television.
"Oh yeah, yeah of course bro. This is just so surreal- I mean my friends are gonna get a real kick out of this."
"Oh, aren't they just," The canine huffed softly, willing himself to avoid tapping his foot impatiently. "I don't suppose you'd want an autograph and a photo?"
His eyes lit up, "Really?"
Peabody's eyes locked with the cashier's own.
"No."
"What? Why did you even off-"
"Phones off and out of sight, Thomas, I won't ask again." The manager sternly warned, appearing seemingly out of nowhere to both parties. "I apologise⦠sir. Is there a problem here?"
"Finally," The dog mumbled under his breath. "Yes, there is a problem here. I am merely asking for a receipt from this young man, and in return I have received nothing but, and pardon my crudeness, lip-flapping!"
The manager leered expectantly at the employee, "Is that so, Mr. Ruben?"
"Well, yes, but he's the Hector Peabody! Of course I'm a little shaken up!"
"Who?" The manager reflexively retorted, wincing ever so slightly under the judgmental gazes received from teen and dog alike.
"Not that it pertains to anything even remotely relevant right now," Peabody began, adjusting his glasses with half-lidded eyes, "but I am very well-celebrated in certain circles and made quite a splash in my hey-day. You may have seen a rerun or two of my show?"
The woman stared blanky.
"Ask your parents." Peabody muttered, rolling his eyes and turning back to face the cashier.
"Well, whatever the case, I want this line moving along. Give the customer his receipt, Thomas."
"Yes, Miss." The kid promptly tore the receipt out of the printer and handed it down to the dog, sparing a glance at the manager as she disappeared down an aisle. "Sorry about her, she's a slave-driver."
"Having seen many a slave-driver, I assure you, she is far from unsavory." He lazily responded, looking over the receipt with a sweeping glance. "You did not ring up my order properly."
"Huh? Oh, my bad. I probably got side-tracked. I'll balance the books later."
"The supermarket books."
"Supermarkets have books." The kid rebutted, digging a palm into his chin as he leaned further over the counter. "Man, it's so weird that you are shopping here. You never really imagine that celebrities have to get groceries too."
The bespectacled beagle quirked a brow. "I cannot imagine how else I'd get my shopping done."
"Yeah, but like, you could be shopping somewhere a little more⦠you know, upmarket?" Thomas whispered conspicuously. "You would be good for it, right?"
"I do not fancy disclosing my financial standing to a cashier. Have a good afternoon." Peabody tugged the edges of his muzzle into an expression more akin to a grimace than a smile.
"Hey wait, when you mentioned slave-drivers earlier, was that like, a joke or-?"
Peabody smirked to himself as the clerk trailed off confusedly behind him, but quickly willed it away, turning to walk out of the store.
"Y-yeah, you have a good day, Hector!" The cashier called out awkwardly, the moment having passed 10-odd seconds ago. Peabody's mouth twitched in slight discomfort at the use of his first name but continued his trek into the carpark.
Turning back to the conveyor belt, Thomas found a very irate customer standing before him. "What? Did you not see who that was?"
"No, but I sure am done hearing about him."
