Spike stared down at the time card marked Jeremy Fitzgerald, or more to the point, the yellow Post It Note stuck to it which read, "I will be deducting the following from this week's wages: the cost of one (1) uniform work shirt (size Medium, pale blue, poly cotton blend w/ custom embroidered name badge) $37.50 plus tax and one (1) gallon glass jar of Del Destino Imported Pepperoncini, hot garlic flavored peppers at $6.50 plus delivery fee and sales tax for a total of $50. Mrs. Inelda Schnelz, office manager."
Spike did the math in his head, "Bloody hell!" he yelled, "That leaves me with only $2 for last night!"
"No, the government gets that."
Stricken, he turned, time card in one hand, a large steel Thermos in the other, and glared down at the dumpy figure of Inelda Schnelz, who had taken the time to meet with him in person at 9 in the evening just as the place was closing down for the night, leaving it to himself. "What?"
"State tax. Social Security… what, you never worked before?" She grated up at him.
"Not. If. I. Could. Help. It. (Bitch, he added mentally.)"
However, the blatant injustice of it all didn't seem to register on the dragon of Freddy Fazbear's. She added, "There's a rat in the ladies restroom. Deal with it."
Spike paused, blinking at the abrupt switch of topic. "I'm Security, not Pest Control!"
The dragon turned, time card in hand, "That's not my problem."
"Why don't you call the fucking exterminators?"
"Watch your language, there's a lady present!" Schnelz loudly cleared her throat, a sound like a half submerged car backfiring in a swamp, "If word gets out we have rats, this chain will lose even more money. Losing money means losing jobs. Including yours."
"Suits me!"
Schnelz gave him a disgusted look over her garish trifocals, "Okay kid, I'll cut you a deal. Get rid of the rat, and I'll forget the cost of that gallon jar of pickled peppers you showered all over the kitchen last night."
Losing the job with its easy access to mechanical mayhem 'bots, one which he intended to have shipped directly to a certain power couple in South America, meant more than a lousy $2. "I'll deal, Mrs. Schnelz. BUT, ONLY if you toss in the cost of the shirt."
"Deal." Eyeglass chain swinging like a weapon, the Schnelz turned and hobbled over to the time clock and punched out. "Just don't tear anything else up or I'll have the police escort you off the property – no, better yet," She smiled at him with a huge pair of coffee-stained dentures, "You don't have any papers. I'll call Immigration and have your skinny undocumented ass kicked out of this country faster than you can whistle Dixie!"
The door slammed behind her.
Spike shrugged as he clocked in. As far as threats went, deportation as an undocumented illegal alien was a new one on him, though it might be interesting to see what they'd do about a walking dead man with a taste for blood who'd been there before the Taft administration.
That and doubtlessly a near century's worth of fingerprints in the FBI database.
Spike hung his duster in Jeremy's locker, and whistling something from the Ramones, went to deal with the rat.