Chapter Twenty-Two

The next fifty hours sped by in a blur.

One might expect that I would take the ample time and advanced notice to come up with some kind of plan, maybe learn karate or stock up on weapons and health potions (that’s a thing, right?). A reasonable person might have even gone so far as to leave town and avoid the gas station altogether. Perhaps lock themselves in a panic room. Or something. (I can’t pretend to know what “reasonable” people do.)

Instead, I focused on two goals: ensuring that nobody else would end up hurt, and putting affairs in order in case I didn’t make it.

The first goal was easy enough. I called the part-timer who was supposed to be there at the moment of the attack and fired him. The schedule was all mine now. No other workers for hours before or after. 

The second goal was harder, but not by much. I wracked my brain trying to figure out everything that needed to be done. I had already done this before, years earlier. I was already ready once. But things changed, and there were new factors I couldn’t ignore. There were people I was going to leave behind. People who might actually be sad. Why did I do that? Why did I think it was a good idea to go and make friends this late in the game, knowing it was just a delayed tragedy? I guess it just happened by accident.

Fifty hours became forty-seven before I was finished with the tenth and final draft of the will. After all the deliberation, the second guessing, the long-winded over-explaining, I finally decided that simple was best. The last will and testament of Jack Townsend, which I wrote on a page torn from my journal, folded into quarters, and stuffed inside my wallet, went thusly:

 

To whomever:

 

I, Jack Townsend, being of sound* mind and all that, do hereby declare that my entire book collection be left to Brother Riley at New Pages (may he see that they are given to someone who appreciates them) EXCEPT for my first edition misprint Order of the Phoenix, which I leave to Amelia O’Brien. My car, or whatever’s left of it, shall stay in the possession of the one calling himself Leroy.  I bestow all of my remaining worldly possessions to Rosa Vasquez (don’t get too excited, Rosa. There’s not much left).

Finally, Jerry, please burn the gas station to the ground and salt the earth. This is not a metaphor. I am instructing you to literally destroy the building and never let anyone else have it. Please and thank you.

Jack

 

I blinked, and forty-seven hours became forty-five. 

I had done nothing to prepare myself for the fight to come, so I started watching YouTube videos about basic self-defense techniques. That quickly devolved into me watching videos about baby hippos and old clips from the Muppet Show. When I snapped out of the playlist trance, I had already wasted half of my night. Still, I wasn’t completely unprepared. I made a point to actually arm myself for once. The baseball bat that the blood-barf goon had left behind was sitting under the counter within arm’s reach, and it was going to stay there until… well, just until.

Doctor Frances M. Howard (visionary, jerk-face, etc.) came into the store well after midnight, dressed like he was on his way to another funeral. Black suit. Solemn expression. No intention to buy anything. He approached the counter and said, “I’ll keep this brief, Jack. I’m a busy man, and I know you should be too. I’ve been in this town far longer than anyone ever should. I want to be done. I want to go home and burn these clothes.”

He was losing it. Which was good. But I was losing it too. Only faster. And he probably had a lot more of it to lose. I couldn’t let him see, though. I couldn’t let him know how badly he was beating me.

“That’s one thing we have in common,” I said.

“What’s that?”
“I would also like to set your clothes on fire.”

He made a confused frown and blinked rapidly. Oh, that didn’t come out right at all. “What I mean to say, is that I’d love to burn the clothes you’re wearing right off.” Nope! That’s worse. That’s much worse, and now he probably thinks I’m flirting. Quick! Avoid eye contact!

I grabbed a bar towel from under the register and proceeded to clean an imaginary spot on the counter. When I looked up at him a moment later, he was shooting daggers with his eyes.

“What do you need to make this sale happen, Jack? Do you want to stay on as manager? Do you want me to promise your friends free snacks for life? Is it about nostalgia? Stubbornness? Pettiness? Give me something. You’re obviously not happy here. Do you love being miserable? Think of how miserable you could make yourself with more time and money. Please, let me help you.”

He handed me his business card again. I flipped it over right away to see the new offer, but there weren’t any numbers. This time, it was just three words: 

“Name your price.”

The same message he gave Mammaw and Pops before they died.

“Which kind of doctor are you supposed to be, anyway?”

He chuckled. “I’ve a PhD in theology.”

“Ha!” I yelled. “So you’re like Dr. Phil? That explains—”

“I also have PhDs in psychology and theoretical physics, and I taught quantum mechanics at Columbia for six years before I got bored and moved into real estate and community planning. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your sick burn. Go ahead and tell me I’m not a real doctor. Really let me have it. Impress me with your words. Unless there’s something else about you that’s impressive. Perhaps your high school diploma? Your employee of the month trophy? A finger painting on the fridge that you’re really proud of? Anything?”

“You have a booger in your nose.”

“No I don’t, Jack. I don’t get boogers.”

“Wow.”

“I tried being nice, but you wouldn’t allow it. So what happens next is all on you.” 

He plucked the card from my fingers and left.

 

***

 

Eighteen hours remaining, and I was falling to pieces. I thought I would work better under pressure, but no. Not this time. Maybe never again. I microwaved a frozen burrito, then stared at it until it was cold. Seventeen hours remaining, and I hadn’t eaten anything in… I tried to remember. Had I actually had any food in the last two days?

I needed to ingest something, even if it was only for the energy to make it past the showdown. I fixed myself a suicide from the frozen drink machine and chugged it as fast as I could between brain freezes. I tried forcing down a hotdog to chase it, but then I threw it all up in the bathroom. As I watched the sugary rainbow geyser expel itself from my body in brutal torrents, I couldn’t help but feel like everything I tried to do only made things worse. Now, with an empty stomach and barely enough energy to flush the toilet, I checked my phone and saw that I only had sixteen hours left.

Panic became my new motivator. I needed to do something. Anything. Even if it was a bad idea. Even if it was dangerous. Maybe there was something I could do to tweak the odds ever so slightly in my favor. What if I could… cheat?

At fifteen hours, I was seriously considering it. Weighing the pros, cons, and moral implications of seeking help from powers unknown. After all, the Russian radio was the thing that set this all into motion.

By fourteen hours, I’d forgotten all about the moral implications. No time for that. I had the cassette tape in front of me playing Jerry’s recording of the Russian radio. An earbud feeding me the forbidden knowledge. A pen in my hand working feverishly to write down the names of everyone the voice declared to be “targeted” or “replaced.” 

Most of the names belonged to people I didn’t know. When the voice announced, “Clyde Callie has been replaced,” my worst fears were confirmed. The radio was right this time.

Eventually, just as Jerry warned, the voice made an abrupt switch from one kind of nonsense to another. “Kathy Young has been targeted. Paul Bailey has been targeted. Jose Cruz has been replaced.” A short pause disrupted the wave-like rhythm that I had grown accustomed to, and then, “No. Grape. Tequila. Trombone. Fix. Montauk. Paris...” 

I knew what came next. A whole lot of nothing. White noise shaped like words. I went to switch off the tape when I heard something that gave me pause.

“Green... Eternal... Left... Jack... Port... Nigh...”

I froze. Did the radio just say my name? With my hand over the tape recorder, I waited and listened until the tape finally cut out. It never said my name again. It wasn’t talking to me. It was just a word. A common word. Not even a name, necessarily. Surely, this was nothing more than a complete coincidence. No reason to obsess over it.

But I had nothing better to do than obsess over this. Plus, obsessing over this was somewhat better than obsessing over the other thing I’d been obsessing over, so I rewound the tape to the terminus of random words. “No… Grape... Tequila... Trombone…” Then I turned the page in my notebook to a fresh sheet and started copying.

I left ample space between each word for notes and numbers. When I’d finished, I’d lost track of time and given myself a nasty writer’s cramp. I studied the sheet to see if there was anything there. Any kind of pattern. Any hidden clue or thread to connect the dots.

Nothing. Just another dead end. 

Thirteen hours remaining until the showdown.

The telephone rang, releasing me from the radio’s spell. Even in this derivative form, it had a powerful hold over me. A gravity. The voice faded from my ears, leaving behind a tender incorporeal pain, like a sunburn on my psyche. Each second that passed stoked the fire hotter. It was no wonder Jerry had such a problem quitting.

I picked up the phone and answered, “Hello?”

“Hello, shithead!”

“Dammit, Beaux! I do not have time for your bullshit right now! I tried being nice, but it’s like you can’t take a fucking hint, can you?! I don’t want to talk to you! I understand you must be bored being dead and all, but you’re going to need to find a new hobby because some of us actually work for a living!”

“But—”

“Bye!”

I slammed the phone down. After a second or two passed, I started to wonder if I’d been a little too hard on him. But then I remembered the torture, human sacrifice, and demon-summoning, and didn’t feel quite so bad anymore. Beaux didn’t call back. Maybe he only gets one phone call a day in hell and I ruined it. Hopefully, he’ll think twice before wasting his phone privileges on me.

I opened a box of crackers and ate an entire sleeve, washing them down with a bottle of water. I managed to keep it all down. For now.

 

***

 

The sun rose on my final day just like any other. I went about my regular routine. I made the coffee. I changed the ice bins. I swept up the snake skins by the bathroom and made a mental note to call an exterminator, but only if I survived the night.

I managed to focus my panic-energy into productivity, stocking and fronting the grocery shelves, counting inventory, putting together a supply order, and finally updating my blog for what might have been the final time. Before I started, I allowed myself a moment to skim the hundreds of messages that had piled up over the last day, all in response to a post I had absolutely no memory of writing. 

The legion of paranormal investigators had a lot of theories about what caused Tiko to lose his cookies halfway through the shakedown. At least one person (as per usual) accused me of making it all up and requested that I promptly die. Some people theorized it was a specific form of biological warfare. Tiko was a host, they explained, incubating the disease, and now we were all infected. SavageCardigan provided a link to a dark web archive about something called “the extraterrestrial flu.” I scrolled down until I saw the old-faithful user ScaredMoose. Sure enough, the Elm Street Irregular had a unique take on the subject:

 

We can all assume the henchmen were hired by the man hoping to buy the gas station. They were unprepared for the gas station’s powers. What they didn’t know and what they couldn’t have known was that the gas station is alive. When they started breaking things, they woke her up. She has ways of defending herself.

 

Once I finished reading, a new comment popped up underneath. This one came from a new user with a vaguely familiar name, “R0g3r.” His avatar was an image of the capital letter R, white against a black background. R0g3er’s rebuttal was direct, if not a little snarky:

 

Not even close, Moose. I’m not surprised they let your comment stay. It’s not just wrong; it’s wrong enough to throw normies off the truth. The reality is that Tiko has been replaced. He wasn’t sent there to scare Jack into selling. He was sent there to kill him. But the transformation is a tricky process. Sometimes they’re duds. Doesn’t matter. The Collector has time on his side, and he’s perfecting the process. 

Jack, I know you’re reading this. I want you to know that I’ve been enjoying the story immensely, but I’m afraid we’re nearing the climax. Be smart and remember: you can’t trust anyone. Your blog is filled with them now. They’re all just replacements, brainwashing you into thinking that your decisions are really your own. Steering you away from the truth and off a cliff. You cannot listen to the voices online. 

If you stay alive long enough, perhaps we will cross paths once again. If not, thank you for your stories.

Always your biggest fan,

-Roger

 

***

 

The gas station was as ready as I could make it for the showdown. Or for customers, but the day stretched on without any visitors and without any sales. The ice in the bins melted. The hotdogs went to waste. At least the coffee got drunk, but all of my other efforts to prepare for consumer interactions were in vain. Nobody was visiting the shitty gas station at the edge of town. At one point midday, someone stopped by to pay for a tank of gas, but the money from that sale wouldn’t even be enough to cover electricity costs for the day. How am I ever going to keep this place in business?

That problem would need to take a number and get in line. First things first. I knew I needed to eat again, so I took another sleeve of crackers and forced them down as fast as I could, hoping this wouldn’t end up being my final meal.

Four hours remaining. I received a phone call. I answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey gimpy, it’s me.” O’Brien.

“Not a huge fan of the new nickname.”

“Do you know where Stoner-boy is right now?”

“You mean Jerry? He told me he was spending the day gardening at the Mathmetist compound, why?”

She sighed. “I just got a call. Someone matching his description was seen streaking through the dollar store parking lot. I was hoping you could tell me that it wasn’t him.”

Well, at least he’s not listening to the radio.

“Sorry. That doesn’t not sound like something he’d do.”

“I guess I better find him first. Thanks.”

“Hey, wait, before you go,” I held my breath, wondering if I was too late.

“Yeah?” Good. Not too late.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything. I’ve been extremely unappreciative of everything you do. More than that, I’ve been a bad friend. I kept thinking I’d make it up to you down the line. I’d start being a better friend. Start listening to you more. Start telling you the truth more. And eventually, it would even out all the secrets. That’s not an excuse. There is no excuse. I just… I wish we could have been better friends.”

A long pause. More than enough time for me to replay my words in my head and squirm.

“Jack, listen to me. You and the other idiots at the gas station are the best friends I’ve had in a long time. Maybe that says more about me than it does about you, but it’s true. Can we…  Can we talk about this more later?”

“Yeah,” I answered, hoping it wasn’t another lie.

 

***

 

Two hours remaining. I convinced myself that it wasn’t technically using the Russian radio if I didn’t listen to the man’s voice. That’s where the drug is, right? The voice? And not the delicious, seductive message it contained? So why did it feel like such a release to pick up my notebook and read those names and nonsense words? I don’t know. Smarter people than me might be able to figure it out one day.

As I stared at the list of names, somehow I knew that I was missing something. A pattern. A clue. What did they all have in common? What were their secrets? How many of these people were strangers? Better yet, how many weren’t?

I reached for my fancy calligraphy pen—the one I pulled out of the lost and found a few months earlier. I’d been saving it for a special occasion, but if I might die tonight it would be a double tragedy to let such an awesome writing utensil go unappreciated. I started circling names in the notebook. Everyone who I recognized, starting with old Aggie. Then the sheriff. There were others too: people from my high school, the rumor mill, even a few gas station regulars. In the end, there were fourteen names in circles. Fourteen people who I knew. Of which, eleven were merely “targeted,” and three had been “replaced.” Sadly, I wasn’t on friendly enough terms with any of them to simply call out of the blue and ask if they had been pod-personed.

I turned the page in my notebook. When I saw what was there, I almost fell out of my chair.

The pen I’d used to circle names had bled through onto this sheet, leaving fourteen faint circle ghosts (that’s the problem with good pens, I guess). The circles lined up perfectly, like I’d done it on purpose. If I only read the words inside the transference circles, it spelled out a message as clear as day:

“No-matter-what-he-chooses-Jack-will-lose-and-die-alone-in-pain-gravy”

I reread it a couple times just to make sure I had the message right. I said it aloud.

“No matter what he chooses, Jack will lose and die alone in pain gravy.”

What the hell is pain gravy?

I turned back to the page of names, inspected them all, and realized that the last one was some guy named “John Gardner,” and not “John Garner” (my old Physics lab partner who got expelled for hooking up with the math teacher). I scratched his name out and flicked back to the random words page. Now, without the last circle, the message made cruel sense:

“No matter what he chooses, Jack will lose and die alone in pain.”

So that’s it? I wasted all of this time deciphering the Russian radio’s coded message, and it’s nothing but a taunt? 

I yelled at the paper, “Oh yeah?! Well what do you know, anyway? You’re just a dumb old sheet of paper!” Just to show it who was boss, I ripped it from the notebook, tore it into a thousand pieces, and tossed them into the air like confetti. It was satisfying, until those pieces floated down and settled all around me and I realized that now I had another mess to clean up.

 

***

 

I checked the clock on my phone about ten million times in the hour leading up to the moment of the scheduled showdown. At five-minutes until showtime, things got uncomfortably interesting.

Rosa came through the door. She had a big smile on her face and a neatly-wrapped box in her hands. She ran up to the counter, dropped the box and said excitedly, “Okay you bipedal S.O.B.! Come out here and let me see it!”

I instinctively reached behind me to grab my trusty crutch. There was a momentary panic when I couldn’t find it, but then I remembered.

I stood up with relative ease, although my leg was starting to ache from all this recent exercise. I walked around the counter, and immediately felt Rosa slam into me with a full-forced hug.

“Oh,” I said, more than a little surprised. “We’re still on a hugging basis?”

“Oh shut up!” she said as she detached and looked down at my legs. “I can’t even remember. They both look real! Which one’s the fake one?”

I checked my phone. Nineteen minutes. What was she doing here? Why now?! I hadn’t seen Rosa in two days. Not since the disastrous book club meeting. All I could say was, “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

“Oh no,” she said with a smile. “I’m livid. Positively furious. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be excited for you! Jerry told me you finally got the prosthetic in and I had to come down here and see it for myself. Oh! I just remembered! I got you something!”

She snatched the box off the counter and pushed it into my hands. I looked at it and asked, “What is this?”

“It’s a present! Duh! Open it!”

I carefully removed the wrapping paper to reveal a shoe box. Then I opened it up to find a pair of moccasin-style house shoes.

She grinned and explained, “I thought a new pair of feet deserved a new pair of shoes.”

“They’re perfect,” I said.

“Thanks. Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. You’re crying!” I wiped away my tears with one of the shoes. “Oh! They are so soft! And absorbent. I didn’t think you’d come back, Rosa.”

“I had to. I’ve been holding onto those shoes ever since you told me you were getting a prosthetic.”

“You came all the way down here for me?”

“Well, you were a little out of my way, but I’m actually headed to another job interview. How do I look?”

She was wearing a black pantsuit, gold earrings, and hair tied up in a bun. “You look great!” I blurted.

“Thanks?”

No, wait, that came out wrong.

“What I mean to say is, I’d hire you in a heartbeat. If it was up to me.”

She sighed. “I know the truth, Jack. I know you’re secretly the new owner of the gas station. I know you’re the one who fired me.”

“What? Wha- no- How did… Did Jerry rat on me?”

“No, I’ve known the whole time. You aren’t nearly as sneaky as you think you are. I wish you felt comfortable enough telling me the truth, but I accept that even now you have your secrets. And I fully intend to exact my revenge upon you and the gas station. It will be swift and righteous.” She grinned wide, took me by the hands, and led me carefully towards the door, “But not today! Today is for celebrating! You want to go for a short walk around the building? Show me exactly what that bad boy can really do?”

I looked at my phone again. This attack was coming soon. Rosa could not be here for it.

“Maybe a rain check?”

“Okay,” she said disappointedly. “Maybe.”

She turned and went to the front door. Before she left, I called out, “Rosa, wait up!”

She stood halfway in and out of the open door. “Yeah?”

“You were always the best worker this place ever saw. You deserve better than us, and if I don’t see you for a while, I hope you get a job as cool as you.”

She stepped back inside and let the door close behind her. “Thanks, Jack. I needed to hear that. Maybe we can—”

“BUT YOU HAVE TO LEAVE.”

“What?”

I checked the time again. Precious seconds were ticking away.

“RIGHT NOW!”

“Are you serious?”

“Go, Rosa! GET OUT OF HERE!”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes as she left. God, I hope that’s not the last thing I ever say to her. 

I checked my phone again. It was time. The radio transmission was a confirmed asshole, but not necessarily a liar. Was it being exact when it said fifty-two hours? Or was there some wiggle room, like fifty-two plus or minus some change? Or did it mean fifty-two metaphorical hours? Was there a chance I heard it wrong? Or could I have hallucinated the whole thing?

Then I saw it, the black truck pulling into our parking lot just as Rosa’s Volkswagen left. This was it. It had to be.

My heart started beating faster, faster than I thought possible. I checked under the counter one last time to make sure my baseball bat hadn’t sprouted legs and danced away.

Still there.

When I looked back up, I screamed ”JESUS!” at the unexpected sight of another lawn gnome on the counter in front of me.

I grabbed him by the tip of his pointy hat and tossed him into the lost and found box right as the front doors opened and two men walked into the gas station.

Suddenly, I felt woefully underprepared.

The man in front had grown beard stubble since the last time I saw him. He wasn’t wearing the steampunk sunglasses anymore, and his dreadhawk hung limply to one side, but he still commanded just as much attention. Perhaps more, even. The flak jacket around his chest read “Fugitive Recovery Agent.”

His friend was right behind him, looking far less generic this time around. He still had the forgettable haircut. The forgettable body. But now he was dressed up like a G.I. Joe, and something was distinctly different about his face—scratch marks. Fresh scratch marks.

The radio didn’t say anything about there being two attackers, not that it mattered. Either one of these guys could probably beat me in a one-on-one fight with their eyes closed. It certainly didn’t help my odds that they were both strapped this time around. Their guns hung in holsters at their sides, along with zip ties and mace cans. They looked like they were ready to go to war, and my puny wooden weapon wasn’t going to do shit, not unless they wanted to be sportsmanlike and give me a ten second head start.

Dreadhawk (the donut cannibal) approached my counter with a smile. I considered the viability of simply running away. But these guys appeared able-bodied enough to outrun a scrawny guy with a fake leg. And even if not, I certainly couldn’t outrun a bullet.

The Russian radio gave me a two percent chance of surviving this without advanced knowledge? In what world would I have been able to beat these guys unprepared? The creeping knowledge settled in like a coffee stain on a wedding dress. I am STILL unprepared.

“Hey.” The interesting man said with a voice like butter on a warm summer day. “Remember me?”

“Of course. You guys were in here a couple days ago.”

“That’s right,” he said with a cocky smirk and quick glance to his friend. The generic man was practically invisible the last time he visited. Now, I couldn’t help but feel his presence with every inch of my being. He circled behind the counter, coming straight for me. Soon, they would both be in striking range. I might not get another chance. Do I wait until they reveal their intentions? Or do I start swinging right away?

I swallowed my fear and asked, “Did you guys need some help finding something?”

“Nah,” said Dreadhawk in a deceptively melodic tone. “I think we got everything we came for now. Right?”

His friend angled over to the work schedule. To where he had been standing unnoticed the last time they came in. He reached up and grabbed something off of the timeclock. Something small, black, and metallic. He pocketed the device and said, “Right.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“Just something we left last time we were in here.” Dreadhawk answered as the generic man walked right out the front door and went to the truck. “Thanks for all your help, Jack. You have no idea how valuable you’ve been. Have a great night.”

He turned to follow his friend outside.

I guess this was a false alarm. Good thing, too, because I was absolutely not prepared. What the hell was I even thinking? A baseball bat? What was that going to do against someone who came in here looking for trouble? My pulse slowly began to settle, but then a thought struck me. Right when the bounty hunter had pushed open the door to leave, I screamed out, “Wait!”

He waited. “Yeah?”

“How much for one of your guns?”

He stepped back into the store and let the door close. After a moment to consider, he walked over to my counter and said in that amazing voice. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. How much for a gun?”

“Are you asking how much I paid? Or how much for you to get one of your own?”

“No, I mean, if I wanted to buy a gun off of you right now, how much would you charge me for it?”

The bounty hunter took a second to think, then he pulled a small pistol from a holster on his ankle and set it in front of me. “One PS1 four-ten forty-five Colt Single-Shot. That means one round capacity. No safety, no serial number, loaded and ready to go. Three hundred, cash.”

I pulled out my wallet and thumbed through everything. It was twelve bucks. Next, I opened the register and counted it all up. Still not enough.

“I don’t suppose you can take a check?”

“No.”

“I’ve got sixty-four dollars and… a bunch of quarters.”

The man took his gun and turned to leave.

“Wait!” I screamed desperately. “How about your mace?” He stopped and turned to see me waving the cash in his direction. “Come on, dude! Sixty-four bucks for a can of mace? That’s gotta be a good deal, right? Look at yourself! No one’s going to mess with you! You were carved from the stones of Mount Badass. Obviously, I need the protection way more than you!”

He shook his head and walked away. I watched as they got into their truck and drove off, wondering if now would be a good time to try and take a deep breath.

I checked my phone. The scheduled moment for my showdown had come and went, which meant that my attacker was tardy. As the minutes passed me by and I got further away from the prophesized fight to the death, I began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’d gotten a free pass. Just this once.

But then the door opened and a big, burly man with a handlebar moustache and leather jacket walked into the store. I reached for the bat.

He ended up grabbing a fountain drink, a dirty magazine, and some chewing tobacco before paying for a tank of gas and leaving. Another false alarm.

I tried to relax, but there was only so much of this roller coaster I could take. Who was coming for me? Would I recognize him? Was it going to be one of my old attackers like Spencer or Beaux? Would it be a monster? Or would it be someone or something else altogether? 

Then I heard it. The sound of a car horn honking. I looked outside to see the old widow Agatha Sistrunk sitting in the driver's seat of a baby-blue Jeep Wrangler, waving at me to come out and pump her gas.

Of course.

Of. Fucking. Course.

Oh, really funny, universe! You’re going to make me fight to the death against an old lady?! How mature! I grabbed the baseball bat. Fine! If this is how it’s got to be, then this is how it’s gonna be. Let’s get it over with.