Doorbusters (2)
Nov. 26th, 2011 11:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolAs the twins start loading triddy boxes into the Shopping Cart's basket, I hit the cutoff on the flamethrower's juice. Bruno shouts in alarm as the pilot flame goes out.
Sorry, kid, I tell him. No flames in the store. Omnimax doesn't give two shits what happens outside the store, and they're not going to be upset over a little structural damage to the door itself. But open flames inside the store are apt to damage the merchandise, and stores take that kind of business very seriously.
Irina asks about bullets. Live ammunition is different. You can shoot all you want in a store. They actually encourage it; free reloads are available in Hunting and Fishing. But the Omnimax enforces a strict 'You Shot It, You Bought It' policy. And the stores may put up with a little recreational shopper-on-shopper violence, but they're very strict on the topic of shoplifting. If at any point Omnimax determines that you owe them money, they're going to collect before you leave the store.
So the moral of the story, I conclude, is: slay it, don't spray it. Har har.
Bruno whistles, points. A procession is coming through the doors that lead out to Gardening. Nice piece of work, coming in that way. The front door is well secured and swarming with other shoppers, but if you can cut your way through the mesh fencing, you can have your own private entrance.
Four guys with machine pistols on dirt bikes roll in, secure the area and wave in a backhoe. I know the guy driving it. It's Early Byrd, a rival shopper from way back. He's gone grey and bearded and thick around the middle; I can't believe old Early Byrd looks like Santa in khaki. But it's definitely the same old bastard that I crossed rifles and coupon books with back in the day.
Early Byrd catches sight of the Shopping Cart and shouts something to his team. Immediately the dirt bikes fan out and roll out of sight down different rows, probably encircling us. The backhoe itself starts to rumble towards us, plowing over outdoor furniture in its path. I notice it has a piece of plate steel welded on the front. Oh, wonderful.
I call for Gamble and Chary to get their butts back on the Shopping Cart, because it is time to check out before we check out. Early Byrd punctuates this message by shooting the triddy box Gamble is holding. I yell at Early Byrd that I am NOT paying for that, and then I throw it in reverse. We are backing over aisle shelving of breakfast cereals with our big tread tires. I throw a few experimental rounds at Early Byrd's mantlet plate, just in case it's made of tissue paper or something. It's not.
Bruno is still exposed up in the turret, like an idiot. I yank him down into the cabin, then spin the Shopping Cart around and we are rolling along the back aisle of the store. Behind us I can hear the backhoe crashing through shelves where the corridor is too narrow.
Then, as we are cruising past camping supplies, a machine pistol chatters. On the right side, Chary is a sitting duck; one of the cyclists has set an ambush and shoots twin #1 as we pass. Gamble jumps into the basket of the cart and grabs his brother by the collar to keep him from falling off the wagon. Meanwhile, Irina dumps over an entire shelf of coolers on the cyclist, which ruins his day and possibly crushes him. We wheel on past. Gamble stabilizes his brother in the basket, but damn if he isn't bleeding all over our precious triddy sets. Boys, I say sternly, I ain't watching no triddy with boy blood all over it.
But that backhoe is still crashing away behind us. I'm sure Early Byrd is pissed about shooting that set, which is definitely on his dime, but no doubt we've had our share of conflicts in the distant past, and it's not impossible that a veteran shopper like Early Byrd might just hold a grudge over, say, being beaten out at getting the last Laugh-Along-With-Grumbo just before Christmas, or being lightly singed in a dispute involving manufacturer's coupons.
The Shopping Cart is mostly built for maneuverability. Early Byrd's backhoe is a lot tougher than us, and if his cyclists don't shoot us up, he'll eventually catch up and pay me back for setting him on fire, a little, way back when.
And that gives me an idea. I take a hard right down the next camping supply aisle and start scanning the shelves. You can get anything at Omnimax – freeze-dried food, camp stoves and lanterns, first aid stuff… ah. I grab a bottle of powdered potassium permanganate off the shelves as we pass. It's a good disinfectant, among other uses.
Behind us, the backhoe crashes through a row of shelves and the next – then backs up and turns to fall in behind us. Ahead I think I hear the gunning of a motorcycle engine, coming from the next intersection. Irina climbs up on the roof of the turret and jumps atop the shelving, then begins firing down on somebody on the left leg of the crossroads. I turn into them and find cyclist #2 pinned down in the middle of the aisle. I sweep closely past, and the scythe blades make short work of him. Irina jumps back on the roof and we're off again.
We're back in the middle of the Omnimax. That means other shoppers are here – none as armored as we, but still very touchy and defensive about protecting their various bargains. Some of them may also still harbor negative feelings towards us, based on unfortunate misunderstandings that may or may not have transpired outside the store about four minutes earlier. We receive some incoming fire. From his sheltered position in the cart, Chary returns fire. Bruno takes control of the pallet jack and waggles it back and forth to crush passersby. I coax Irina down from her exposed position on the roof.
Irina wants to know where we are going. I tell her Beauty Supplies. Irina knows the way and gives me directions.
We lose the left rear tire. I have several left rear tires so this is not the end of the world. I look in the rear-view mirror; the backhoe is back on our tails, and Early Byrd has something that shoots long steel shafts. One passes through my arm, through-and-through, a little blood but no big deal. I've bled worse when the credit card bills come in.
We jink down various turns to throw off pursuit, then roll into Beauty Supplies. I eschew most forms of moisturizers and choose a bottle of pure glycerin. And then we're off again, a split second before the backhoe's bulldozer blade takes the entire shelf of products down.
We turn away from Cash/Wrap to buy a little time. In front of the pharmacy I get out of the Shopping Cart and set my trap. I dump out the entire bottle of potassium permanganate on the ground and put the bottle of glycerin on top of it. Then I dump out several bottles of rubbing alcohol all around it and get back in the vehicle. I gun the motor as loud as possible and wait.
Sure enough, Early Byrd's backhoe comes grumbling down the corridor. I turn tail and let him shoot up my backside as he bears down on my trap. The treads crush the glycerin and mix it with the potassium permanganate powder.
The whole business goes up in flame, which lights up the puddle of rubbing alcohol. Pretty soon the entire Pharmacy area is on fire. Alarms sound, sprinklers go off, and emergency response teams begin to converge on the spot. Uh oh, Early Byrd; now you've got Omnimax after you for starting a fire in their store. That was careless of you.
We make for Cash/Wrap. I skid the Shopping Cart into the 12 Items or Less line (we have nine triddies) and four heavily armored checker/mercenaries scream for us to halt. We stand down and let them crawl over the vehicle. They glare suspiciously at the three triddy boxes that have been stained with Chary's blood and tell us in no uncertain terms that we've voided the warranty on those units.
I tell them that's fine. I also tell them we don't need gift-wrapping or shipment, and I'm not interested in re-acquiring an Omnimax Super Shopper Card. I used to have one, but I cut it up when I quit the biz.
We pay, and we're ready to roll out, when suddenly the checkers turn cold on us. In an instant there's twenty of them in our faces, guns out. What's the problem, I ask? And they call out the Manager. He has a black leather trenchcoat and a swagger stick.
Hello, Dez, he says. We've just checked accounts and you have some unsettled business with us.
Rot, I say. Me and Omnimax are square, always have been.
No no, says the Manager. Right here in your account, it says you boosted sixteen microwave ovens from Appliance Town a couple of decades ago. Sure, sez I, but that's Appliance Town, not Omnimax.
Ah, says the Manager, all grins. But we acquired Appliance Town last year.
Ah, says I. Yes.
So you'll just be coming with us now, eh? Says the Manager.
Irina gives me a little nudge. She's got a grenade. I knew I liked that girl for a reason.
Yeah, just a sec, Mister Manager, says I.
What's the plan? Asks Bruno.
Okay, sez I, first, give me the grenade. Irina does it.
Next, sez I, you kids live a long and healthy life. Then I open the Shopping Cart's throttle and step off. Bruno can only gape as the Shopping Cart shoots through the hole where the store's front door used to be. I wave. Lovely girl, Irina. Too good for my Bruno, but sometimes a boy gets lucky.
The Omnimax manager takes me into custody. I'm headed for the Reeducation Camps. Probably the next time anybody sees me, I'll be that same pathetic greeter that I ran down first thing inside the door.
But it was worth it. My boy got his triddy. He didn't get shot up, and he still might marry a good girl, if he doesn't screw that up. And I got to have one more hot run on a Black Friday, busting down doors, where lead and guts count more than civility and punctuality, and where possession is nine tenths of a law that only adds up to 90%.
Sorry, kid, I tell him. No flames in the store. Omnimax doesn't give two shits what happens outside the store, and they're not going to be upset over a little structural damage to the door itself. But open flames inside the store are apt to damage the merchandise, and stores take that kind of business very seriously.
Irina asks about bullets. Live ammunition is different. You can shoot all you want in a store. They actually encourage it; free reloads are available in Hunting and Fishing. But the Omnimax enforces a strict 'You Shot It, You Bought It' policy. And the stores may put up with a little recreational shopper-on-shopper violence, but they're very strict on the topic of shoplifting. If at any point Omnimax determines that you owe them money, they're going to collect before you leave the store.
So the moral of the story, I conclude, is: slay it, don't spray it. Har har.
Bruno whistles, points. A procession is coming through the doors that lead out to Gardening. Nice piece of work, coming in that way. The front door is well secured and swarming with other shoppers, but if you can cut your way through the mesh fencing, you can have your own private entrance.
Four guys with machine pistols on dirt bikes roll in, secure the area and wave in a backhoe. I know the guy driving it. It's Early Byrd, a rival shopper from way back. He's gone grey and bearded and thick around the middle; I can't believe old Early Byrd looks like Santa in khaki. But it's definitely the same old bastard that I crossed rifles and coupon books with back in the day.
Early Byrd catches sight of the Shopping Cart and shouts something to his team. Immediately the dirt bikes fan out and roll out of sight down different rows, probably encircling us. The backhoe itself starts to rumble towards us, plowing over outdoor furniture in its path. I notice it has a piece of plate steel welded on the front. Oh, wonderful.
I call for Gamble and Chary to get their butts back on the Shopping Cart, because it is time to check out before we check out. Early Byrd punctuates this message by shooting the triddy box Gamble is holding. I yell at Early Byrd that I am NOT paying for that, and then I throw it in reverse. We are backing over aisle shelving of breakfast cereals with our big tread tires. I throw a few experimental rounds at Early Byrd's mantlet plate, just in case it's made of tissue paper or something. It's not.
Bruno is still exposed up in the turret, like an idiot. I yank him down into the cabin, then spin the Shopping Cart around and we are rolling along the back aisle of the store. Behind us I can hear the backhoe crashing through shelves where the corridor is too narrow.
Then, as we are cruising past camping supplies, a machine pistol chatters. On the right side, Chary is a sitting duck; one of the cyclists has set an ambush and shoots twin #1 as we pass. Gamble jumps into the basket of the cart and grabs his brother by the collar to keep him from falling off the wagon. Meanwhile, Irina dumps over an entire shelf of coolers on the cyclist, which ruins his day and possibly crushes him. We wheel on past. Gamble stabilizes his brother in the basket, but damn if he isn't bleeding all over our precious triddy sets. Boys, I say sternly, I ain't watching no triddy with boy blood all over it.
But that backhoe is still crashing away behind us. I'm sure Early Byrd is pissed about shooting that set, which is definitely on his dime, but no doubt we've had our share of conflicts in the distant past, and it's not impossible that a veteran shopper like Early Byrd might just hold a grudge over, say, being beaten out at getting the last Laugh-Along-With-Grumbo just before Christmas, or being lightly singed in a dispute involving manufacturer's coupons.
The Shopping Cart is mostly built for maneuverability. Early Byrd's backhoe is a lot tougher than us, and if his cyclists don't shoot us up, he'll eventually catch up and pay me back for setting him on fire, a little, way back when.
And that gives me an idea. I take a hard right down the next camping supply aisle and start scanning the shelves. You can get anything at Omnimax – freeze-dried food, camp stoves and lanterns, first aid stuff… ah. I grab a bottle of powdered potassium permanganate off the shelves as we pass. It's a good disinfectant, among other uses.
Behind us, the backhoe crashes through a row of shelves and the next – then backs up and turns to fall in behind us. Ahead I think I hear the gunning of a motorcycle engine, coming from the next intersection. Irina climbs up on the roof of the turret and jumps atop the shelving, then begins firing down on somebody on the left leg of the crossroads. I turn into them and find cyclist #2 pinned down in the middle of the aisle. I sweep closely past, and the scythe blades make short work of him. Irina jumps back on the roof and we're off again.
We're back in the middle of the Omnimax. That means other shoppers are here – none as armored as we, but still very touchy and defensive about protecting their various bargains. Some of them may also still harbor negative feelings towards us, based on unfortunate misunderstandings that may or may not have transpired outside the store about four minutes earlier. We receive some incoming fire. From his sheltered position in the cart, Chary returns fire. Bruno takes control of the pallet jack and waggles it back and forth to crush passersby. I coax Irina down from her exposed position on the roof.
Irina wants to know where we are going. I tell her Beauty Supplies. Irina knows the way and gives me directions.
We lose the left rear tire. I have several left rear tires so this is not the end of the world. I look in the rear-view mirror; the backhoe is back on our tails, and Early Byrd has something that shoots long steel shafts. One passes through my arm, through-and-through, a little blood but no big deal. I've bled worse when the credit card bills come in.
We jink down various turns to throw off pursuit, then roll into Beauty Supplies. I eschew most forms of moisturizers and choose a bottle of pure glycerin. And then we're off again, a split second before the backhoe's bulldozer blade takes the entire shelf of products down.
We turn away from Cash/Wrap to buy a little time. In front of the pharmacy I get out of the Shopping Cart and set my trap. I dump out the entire bottle of potassium permanganate on the ground and put the bottle of glycerin on top of it. Then I dump out several bottles of rubbing alcohol all around it and get back in the vehicle. I gun the motor as loud as possible and wait.
Sure enough, Early Byrd's backhoe comes grumbling down the corridor. I turn tail and let him shoot up my backside as he bears down on my trap. The treads crush the glycerin and mix it with the potassium permanganate powder.
The whole business goes up in flame, which lights up the puddle of rubbing alcohol. Pretty soon the entire Pharmacy area is on fire. Alarms sound, sprinklers go off, and emergency response teams begin to converge on the spot. Uh oh, Early Byrd; now you've got Omnimax after you for starting a fire in their store. That was careless of you.
We make for Cash/Wrap. I skid the Shopping Cart into the 12 Items or Less line (we have nine triddies) and four heavily armored checker/mercenaries scream for us to halt. We stand down and let them crawl over the vehicle. They glare suspiciously at the three triddy boxes that have been stained with Chary's blood and tell us in no uncertain terms that we've voided the warranty on those units.
I tell them that's fine. I also tell them we don't need gift-wrapping or shipment, and I'm not interested in re-acquiring an Omnimax Super Shopper Card. I used to have one, but I cut it up when I quit the biz.
We pay, and we're ready to roll out, when suddenly the checkers turn cold on us. In an instant there's twenty of them in our faces, guns out. What's the problem, I ask? And they call out the Manager. He has a black leather trenchcoat and a swagger stick.
Hello, Dez, he says. We've just checked accounts and you have some unsettled business with us.
Rot, I say. Me and Omnimax are square, always have been.
No no, says the Manager. Right here in your account, it says you boosted sixteen microwave ovens from Appliance Town a couple of decades ago. Sure, sez I, but that's Appliance Town, not Omnimax.
Ah, says the Manager, all grins. But we acquired Appliance Town last year.
Ah, says I. Yes.
So you'll just be coming with us now, eh? Says the Manager.
Irina gives me a little nudge. She's got a grenade. I knew I liked that girl for a reason.
Yeah, just a sec, Mister Manager, says I.
What's the plan? Asks Bruno.
Okay, sez I, first, give me the grenade. Irina does it.
Next, sez I, you kids live a long and healthy life. Then I open the Shopping Cart's throttle and step off. Bruno can only gape as the Shopping Cart shoots through the hole where the store's front door used to be. I wave. Lovely girl, Irina. Too good for my Bruno, but sometimes a boy gets lucky.
The Omnimax manager takes me into custody. I'm headed for the Reeducation Camps. Probably the next time anybody sees me, I'll be that same pathetic greeter that I ran down first thing inside the door.
But it was worth it. My boy got his triddy. He didn't get shot up, and he still might marry a good girl, if he doesn't screw that up. And I got to have one more hot run on a Black Friday, busting down doors, where lead and guts count more than civility and punctuality, and where possession is nine tenths of a law that only adds up to 90%.
