The least he could hope for was to get in and out of the gas station without seeing a customer. Was that so much to ask for?

Douglas stared at the big rig fueling up at the pumps. Gas-guzzling shit-wagons for the incoming apocalypse. He shook his balding head before scratching at the razor burns on his light brown chin. He’d slept in and barely had time to mix the dough. Getting himself ready had taken a backseat. But he still had to try—blue shirt tucked in, clean shaven, cologne generously applied. He had to look his best. The boss might be in.

Peering at the truck again, he decided he’d go in the back. He loaded up a collapsible metal dolly with two dozen pizza crusts and made his way up the gravel path leading to the back door of the convenience store. Any more than that and he’d be risking his back. He’d thrown it out before, and he wasn’t getting any younger. Slow and steady, that’s how he had to play it.

He carefully steered his cart past the stinking dumpster, and over the fresh divots and holes he always seemed to find in the path. As he went by, he scraped the gravel back into position with his boot. If Brad wasn’t going to keep the place tidy, he would.

His wizened eyes followed the dirty disturbances to the edge of the building. Those animals always seemed to be getting under the store. He scanned the freshly painted siding for a weakness but couldn’t find it. The siding seemed to project straight into the ground. This wasn’t the first time he marveled at the ingenuity of nature, and certainly not the last time it would fill him with contempt.

If he ran the place, he’d lay poison and be done with it. Too many hippies on the island. Nature would overtake the fool lot of them.

He pulled out his keyring and unlocked the back door before pulling the cart up the small ramp and entering the storeroom in the back.

He flicked on the light switch, labeled ‘Turn off before leaving’, and hauled the cart past shelves of overstock: snack foods, camping supplies, seasonal fair, and towards the large double fridge at the back. There were still six shells from yesterday.

Douglas sighed and scratched at his scabby scalp. They didn’t use even eighty percent of what he kept stocked. Then, when it was busy, they often sold out. Brad didn’t have the math right and just told him to keep the fridge stocked.

So, he followed orders; he rotated the fresh stock in, and if needed, he would remove anything that had gone stale.

The place was bleeding money, even if it was a slow trickle. It could be so much better and save so much more money. But he knew the manager didn’t care. It wasn’t his money that he was wasting.

Douglas returned to his car, a rusty, old, red panel van, and loaded up the rest of his shells. The van was full of crusts on its way to the pizza joint on the outskirts of Hermit’s Rest. They needed four times the stock to even keep up with their demand. He didn’t like the owners, didn’t like their attitudes, and hated their politics. But they made up most of his business now, and he got back at them by charging more per crust.

The business was out there; they just needed to bring it in.

As he continued his usual stream of absent-minded complaints, he returned to the storeroom to find it lit.

He sneaked a peek in and found the boy, Tom, fiddling with the box of novelty sunglasses.

“Thinking of upgrading your look?” Douglas asked, imagining the little prick would have stolen the glasses had he not been there.

The kid spun around and put a hand on his chest.

“Holy shit! You scared me, Doug.”

“Don’t swear,” Douglas sneered. “What if a customer were to hear?”

Tom raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to respond, but instead, he just nodded and went back to his rightful place in the store.

He should always be at that counter and ready to serve. Douglas nodded to himself silently.

Returning to the fridge, he finished his work and was just about ready to leave when something caught his eye.

The pizza shop adjoined the storeroom beside the fridge, separated by a waist-height set of saloon doors. Past them, Douglas could see Brad. The cheesy git was stuffing his face with loose slices of pepperoni. Just shoveling them into his gob with his bare hands, like some kind of animal.

Douglas knew he should let it go. But the whole thing was so utterly distasteful that he couldn’t help himself.

He leaned over the saloon doors and called.

“You know those go on pizzas for the customers, right?”

Bradley spun his fat face around, panic pulling what little color he had from his cheeks.

“Your dirty mitts shouldn’t be anywhere near that food,” Douglas added, “it’s unhygienic.”

Brad slid his greasy hands into his pockets and scrunched them around. The geezer was either fiddling with himself or wiping his hands in there. The thought made Douglas dry heave, which he noticed turned all that panic in Brad’s face into fury.

Brad approached him, beet red and fuming, and quietly signaled for him to step back into the storeroom.

Douglas shook his head but stepped back to give the moose some room to come in.

Brad pointed at him. A silly gesture. What, was he about to tear down someone else in there?

“Keep your fucking voice down,” he said, his own voice venturing on a yell.

“Why? Afraid someone might notice you gorging yourself silly?”

“You have some fucking nerve. What if a customer thinks our pizzas aren’t clean?”

Brad was playing at being a boss man, but Douglas knew better. He had hit a nerve.

“They aren’t, if you keep treating the place like your personal buffet line. Nah, closer to a feeding trough, I reckon.”

That was too far. He knew he’d crossed a line as soon as he’d said it, his voice losing confidence even before to had left his mouth.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Brad’s bloodshot eyes look Douglas up and down. “You’re the fucking pizza boy, and you think you can talk to me like that? Are you forgetting who signs your paychecks, little man?”

Douglas knew he should shut up, maybe even apologize. But the audacity of it…that familiar anger fed him. And it was rarely sated in silence.

“Ms. Cruz signs my paychecks.”

Bradley laughed.

“Yeah, ‘spose you’re right. But do you think she’d bat an eyelash if I fired you?”

Now Douglas could feel his own face growing hot. This was the kind of thing that had gotten him fired time and time again. But it wasn’t about him. This dumb shit thought himself a king when all he was was a frumpy lapdog.

“Ms. Cruz is in business with me because she knows I do a good job and she—”

“She keeps paying you because you’re cheap. That’s it. And I know why you keep bringing in the crusts even morning like a good boy.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Well, it ain’t for the money. We know that hipster joint pays better.”

He wasn’t wrong. Olympus Pizza was more than four times the profit.

“A man can’t diversify?”

“Big word,” Brad scoffed, “but we both know you’re here early every day hoping to get a leer at Sophie.”

That was too much. Douglas slammed a hand down on the old metal shelving, causing the whole thing to ring out like a gong.

“What, and you think you’re any different?” he screamed. “You think you’re, what? Her white knight? Her pudgy little prince?”

Douglas reached out and flicked Brad in the gut.

Brad went from barely contained rage to quiet, cold hatred. His beady eyes narrowed into hateful crescents.

“You better start reaching out to new customers. I’m going to make it my personal goal to find a replacement supplier and, mark my words, I will enjoy every minute of the hunt.”

He took a step towards Douglas.

“And Doug, if you ever touch me again, I’ll fold you like that cheap suit you wore to Soph’s Christmas party.”

He turned and walked confidently back out onto the shop floor.

The fucking nerve of it.

Douglas was so angry that he was starting to sweat. He could smell it, even past the cologne and aftershave—the heady animalistic smell of adrenaline and hatred.

The fluorescent lights above him flickered, but Douglas hardly took notice.

He knew they were close, but using her like ammunition against him…it was beyond contemptible.

The failing lights seemed to surround him. The darkness emphasizing how alone he was in the room.

How alone he was in life.

If he lost this gig, he’d never see her again. What would he do? What could he do?

As much as he hated to admit it, he knew the truth. Brad had all the power. And there was nothing he could do.

Douglas clenched his fists so hard that he could feel his nails sinking into the soft flesh of his palms. He’d give anything to take that power from him. The pain in his hands deepened, and when he looked down, even in the dark, he could see he was bleeding.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself. He always let his rage get the better of him, and he was always the one that suffered. It was well past time someone else suffered for it. Staring at the glistening fluid dripping down to the floor, he projected all his anger, all his hate. All his jealousy onto the floor. Where Brad was, no doubt, laughing at him.

And like a curse, he let the bile seep out with his hateful words. 

“I hope you choke on your own shit, you fat pig."