The station wagon was still leaking a toxic, radioactive-looking green fluid onto the asphalt as we stepped out. In perfect, synchronized choreography, all six of us slammed our doors at the exact same time. We slid our pitch-black aviator sunglasses back over our eyes, popped fresh, unlit cigarettes between our lips solely for the aesthetic value, and marched toward the glass doors of the gas station side-by-side in a horizontal V formation, Brad leading the group into the store.
We looked like a low-budget, highly heavily-armed cartel of absolute dumbasses.
We burst through the glass doors, our chins held high, moving in slow-motion as the automated chime beeped. We didn't look at the racks of cheap sunglasses or the stale hot dogs rotating on the rollers. We just stared straight ahead, tough, nonchalant, and aggressively cool, each of us casually flaunting Marcus’s forged adult IDs between our fingers.
Brad took the lead, his massive shoulders taking up the entire aisle. He marched right up to the counter, leaned his heavy frames over the plexiglass, and gave the scrawny, middle-aged cashier a sharp, predatory nod.
"Yo," Brad rumbled, his voice dropping into a ridiculously deep, gravelly tone that sounded like he’d been eating gravel for breakfast. "Yeah, you there. Imma need the best shit you got, bud."
The cashier—a guy named Gary, according to his crooked nametag stared at us. He looked at Brad’s massive football arms, looked at my oversized army jacket, looked at Mal who was literally staring at him without blinking like a sleep paralysis demon, and his face went completely pale. He didn't see a bunch of high school skippers. He saw a highly volatile, heavily caffeinated urban street gang.
Gary began to sweat profusely, swallowed hard, and nervously gestured toward the back of the store.
"U-Uh, right away, sirs. Right this way. Please don't hurt the register."
He scrambled out from behind the counter, leading us down the aisle like a hostage negotiator.
"Hurry the fuck up," Brad barked, keeping his voice incredibly deep and menacing.
It was completely stupid. We weren't robbing the place. We had legal tender in our pockets. But Brad was so profoundly swept up in his own 80s action-hero fantasy that he was accidentally executing a felony stick-up using nothing but pure, unadulterated gym-bro energy. Gary was shaking in his boots, his hands trembling as he stared at the glass refrigerator doors, his eyes scanning the shelves slowly, desperately trying to find whatever "the best shit" meant to a group of teenage fugitives.
Brad stepped closer, towering over the man.
"GET THE GODDAMN DRINK."
Gary literally jumped a foot in the air, letting out a small, terrified squeak.
"Uh, yes sir! Right away, sir! Please, I have a family!"
He frantically yanked open the bottom fridge door and hoisted out a massive, heavy, industrial-sized premium crate of imported, elite artisanal alcoholic juice blends, practically dropping it into Brad's arms.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
In the background, Marcus and I let out a low, satisfied chuckle. Tiffany smirked, adjusting her sunglasses. We followed a trembling Gary back to the front counter like a pack of wolves escorting a sheep.
Gary slammed his hands onto the register, his fingers flying across the keys. He paused, swallowed his spit, and looked up at us with absolute dread.
"I-IDs, please. Company policy."
In perfect, unified precision, all five of us snapped our laminated cards onto the counter. Gary barely even looked at them. He saw the word "FORKLIFT OPERATOR" on Brad's card and immediately hit enter.
Gary aggressively punched the numbers into the ancient cash register. The machine let out a loud, metallic DING! that made Artie jump and hit his head against a display of beef jerky.
"Okay... okay, you're good," Gary whispered, wiping his brow. He looked at the total on the screen, winced, and squeaked, "That'll be fifty bucks, sir.”
Brad froze. His jaw dropped so low I thought it was going to detach from his skull. He ripped his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose, his eyes wide with financial panic.
"Wait, what?!" Brad roared, his chest puffing out. "Fifty bucks?! For drinks and snacks?! Are you serious right now, Gavin? Or uh–Gary! What did you do, tax us for the atmosphere?!"
Gary didn't even flinch. He just pointed a lazy, nicotine-stained finger at Brad’s face.
"You said word for word, 'I want the best shit you got.' So I'm givin' ya the best shit I got. That imported beer is twelve dollars a bottle because it was squeezed by actual monks or some crap. Pay up, Brock. Looks its a discount. It should be 70 bucks."
"Twelve dollars? Honestly, that’s a steal for monk-squeezed. Pay the man, Brad." Tiffany gasped loudly from the back.
"I don't have fifty bucks!" Brad hissed, turning around to look at us in a panic. "My dad only gave me a tenner for gas!"
"Oh, for the love of—" I muttered, digging into my army jacket pockets, only to find three paper clips, a melted chapstick, and a coupon for a car wash that expired three years ago. "Marcus, you’re the twenty-five-year-old forklift operator! Pay him!"
"I spent all my liquidity on the high-resolution lamination paper for your fake IDs!" Marcus yelled back, aggressively shifting into a defensive stance. "I have exactly four dollars and a token for an arcade that went out of business in '85!"
"We’re going to get arrested for snack-fraud!" Artie wailed, clutching his inhaler like a rosary. "Grand larceny of alcoholic beverages! It’s on my permanent record! I can feel the handcuffs!"
"Quiet, casualties," Brad growled. Suddenly, he turned back to the cashier. He dropped his shoulders, puffed his chest out to maximum density, and allowed his voice to drop into a deep, gravelly, terrifyingly demonic baritone that sounded like an action movie trailer narrator on a bender. "YOU ARE GONNA GIVE US THE DAMN DRINKS, GARY."
The sheer, absurd bass resonance of Brad’s voice literally rattled the plastic display of cheap lighters on the counter.
Gary eyes dilated in sudden, primal terror. He let out a small, pathetic whimper, his knees visibly buckling behind the register. He looked at Brad’s massive, flexing biceps, then at Mal, who was currently staring at him from the candy aisle while slowly licking a giant lollipop without blinking.
"O-okay," Gavin stammered, his hands shaking violently as he hit the 'No Sale' button, causing the register drawer to slam open. "Just... just take it. Take the monk juice. Take the jerky. Please don't break my ribs, Brock. I have a shift at the bowling alley at noon."
"Yeahhh," Marcus murmured from behind us, rubbing his hands together in a tough, low-toned chuckle. "Hehe. Excellent."
"A flawless negotiation," Mal whispered, her voice echoing creepily from the corner. "The spirits of capitalism are weeping."
"Grab the loot and run!" Tiffany shrieked, entirely abandoning her high-fashion grace as she snatched the pack of drinks and bolted toward the automatic doors like a linebacker.
We grabbed the mountain of snacks and sprinted out of the mini-mart, looking like the most chaotic, unhinged, and heavily hydrated fugitives in the history of the tri-state area.