"It's not my turn." I say, adding a hint of smug arrogance to my inflection. Even if she knows it isn't true, she can at least believe that I believe it's true.

"That's what you said last time!" Dee protests.

"Yeah," I say, sighing, "but I didn't say it's your turn. I said it isn't my turn."

"There's only two of us!"

"Oh, is there?" I click my tongue. "Aw, geez. Oh, man. Oof. Sorry to hear. How unfortunate. I guess the holy duty falls on you, after all."

She shakes her head. "Get up and go!"

"My leg hurts."

"I thought it was just the knee."

"The pain's spread."

"No, it hasn't."

"I'm dying, Dee."

She throws the plastic gun to me. "Guess you better get on with it, then."

Well, it was worth a shot. "Fine. But we're in an open-carry state, you know. If that clerk pulls a gun out on me, I won't be able to run away. And if I he kills me, it's your fault, and you'll have to live with it forever and ever."

"Come back as this camper. At least then we wouldn't need gas."

I slip on the Spider-Man mask. "If I come back as the camper, I'm driving us both off a cliff."

"And then you'll come back as a burner phone."

"And you as a tampon warmer."

She groans. "Mine wasn't that mean."

I shrug. "When I put this mask on, I just turn into a different person, y'know? I feel the dark energy seeping into me. I'm Asshole Spider-Man. I'm like Spider-Man when Doc-Ock took over Spider-Man's body for like a year."

"I guess that explains my urge for metallic limbs whenever I put it on."

"Oh, no. That's just because you're a decaying corpse."

"Yes. That was the underlying joke I was going for. You're a genius." she says.

"Well, yeah, I guess you could call Doc-Ock a geniu—"

"Go."

I stumble out of the camper. I literally can't see shit in this thing. I can never remember to put the mask on until I'm right in front of the store. Dee remembers. Dee's smart. She should've gone. And now I can't just take the mask off and put it back on when I'm closer. It'd feel stupid. Besides, maybe the attendant can see the camper from wherever he's sitting, and putting on the mask before heading out stopped him from seeing my face? Maybe I am a genius?

I look at the plastic gun in my hand.

No.

No, I'm definitely not a genius.

♫ Oh, Baby, Baby, show me the ee-lephant ♫

I hear music as I approach the station. It's a smaller one than usual. The facade's all nice and torn; the place probably hasn't seen any maintenance since the 80s. The posters covering the front wall helps hide the decay, though. They elevate it from a dump to an Old World memorial.

Speaking of old, the guy at the front desk sure looks to be about as old as the building. His neck is craned over the counter. He's reading a newspaper, occasionally adjusting his glasses or leaning in. Doesn't seem like he's noticed me.

I guess I should be quick about this.

♫ The ee-lephant ♫

I rush inside. The music's blaring in my ears now. My hand's shaking. I try telling it to stop. Just have to hold the gun tightly. Nothing's gonna go wrong. Nobody's going to get hurt. Nobody can get hurt. I don't intend to hurt them, they won't hurt me, either.

It'll be over in a second.

I throw the bag on the counter before the old man even bothers looking my way.

"Put the money in the bag." I order.

He jolts back. "I—"

"Put the money in the fucking bag!" C'mon, go, go!

"Wh—What money?" he asks, looking at me as if I'm the dumbest person in the world.

Dumbest person or not, even an idiot can still point out the obvious: "What mo—? From the cash register! Come on, put it in the bag!"

He blinks. "Right. Okay." But he still doesn't move. "Why?"

"What?!"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I'll—shoot you if you don't?" This should not be this difficult.

"That sounded more like a question than an order. Doesn't seem like you've got the guts for this, young man."

The adrenaline's starting to wear off. That's bringing back the knee pain. And that's not going to help my increasingly-worsening temper.

♫ I see that you're aa-rrogant ♫

I march over to the counter. "Listen, this isn't difficult. I don't want to hurt you any more than you wanna hurt me. Just put the money in the fucking—"

It happens in an instant. He grabs my hand — the one pointing the gun at him; the one this centenarian-looking clerk should've been scared of — and slams it down. My wrist hurts. The knee hurts even worse somehow. I scream. I can't help it.

My grip on the gun loosens. His grip on me tightens.

"Wait—" Okay. We clearly picked the wrong place to rob. I see that now. Let's negotiate, old man. Just have to think. What do I say for him to let me go?

He reaches for something under the counter with his free hand.

"Listen—" Think fast.

He squeezes my arm. It hurts. I lean forward, trying to grab him. I close my eyes. How is he so strong? Am I just too weak?

♫ So show me the ee-lephant ♫

I feel something press against my temple.

I open my eyes.

I realize what's happening.

An open-carry state. Didn't that mean it's supposed to be visible in plain sight? Is that really fair if the counter's blocking view of your holster?

"Wait—!"

♫ Oh, yeah, show me the ee-kk-ee-kk-ee-kk-ee-kk-ee ♫