The Impotent Satyr
"What are they going to do, lock me in?" boasts local shitbag Desdemona Mauthoder, leaning over and on her heavily-strained shopping cart--a shopping cart carrying only a handful of items, none of which are essential pantry staples. Desdemona carefully reads the nutritional facts on a can of black pitted olives; her doctor was adamant that she reduce her sodium intake by 80 percent. "Oops," she says, accidentally dropping the sodium-heavy olives into her cart. "I guess I'll have to buy them now." She chuckles to herself.
All the while the final vestiges of the supermarket night crew have been monitoring (glaring at) Desdemona from the checkout stations as she meanders from aisle to aisle, never filling her cart with anything necessary for human survival. The minutes are ticking down. "Super Mike's Grocery and Gun Magazines will be closing in one minute," the very distinct, well-enunciated, patient-beyond-measure clerk announces through the PA speakers.
Desdemona shuffles her salty ass away from the olives. "This is it," thinks the crew.
She wheels her cart all the way out of the aisle; she's now facing the checkout stand and checkout stand boy, Artie Effe, who's not even displaying his fake smile, and is instead showcasing a tired frown--the classic American product of minimum wage from a dead-end job in one's hometown.
The cart's wheels rattle.
The olive can rolls around.
Her Dr. Scholl's insoles squeak and cry under the extraneous pressure of her big, bad attitude.
And then, with the equivalent of a middle finger, Desdemona turns her cage-on-wheels and waddles down the baking aisle. All employees collectively sigh, one after the other, into the microphone. It plays throughout the store, but only fuels Desdemona's insatiable hunger for the bereavement of humanity within others.
"The store is closed. Please, for the love of god, bring your items to the front or we will be forced to cry in front of those who currently respect us--very loud, heaving sobs," customer service rep Stephanie Empeethri begs. After the message, she smacks the microphone against her head several times before her coworker, Jay Pegg, forcefully takes it from her and then does the same.
With the crew's spirit completely, utterly broken, Desdemona is at last fulfilled. She shoves the can of olives down her stretchy pants and leaves the cart (propping open the ice cream cooler door) behind. The crew watches in disbelief as she walks toward the entrance, empty handed. "Yes, I found everything OK," she says with a turd-eating smile, and walks out of the store.
The crew wipe their tears and bandage their microphone-concussed heads. "Wait for it," cart attendant Esvy Gee says to her comrades. They wait. The sound of a car door closing emanates from the parking lot. Then the engine stumbles to life, but is quickly followed by a BANG and subsequent eruption of flames lighting up the dark parking lot. "Well, I'm heading out for the night," Esvy says with a smirk. "See you all tomorrow."
"Worth it," said Artie nonchalantly.