Author's Notes: I wrote this little fluff for a friend, who I accidentally mad feel bad. ::cringe:: So I wrote up a quick fic, just for her, to hopefully make her feel better. And it did. ^_^ Go me. Yes, S-Mart is blatantly ripped off from Evil Dead. And that's all there is to it. Nothing more.
Warnings: Jim has problems. o.O I'll keep it at that.
Jim, the Cigarette Man
Hello everybody. My name is Jim and I sell cigarettes for a living.
That's right, cigarettes. That would be my life in a nutshell. Alcohol, processed meat in air tight plastic packages, female hygiene products... Cigarettes. Need a cigarette? Here, I got one. Have a cigarette. Talk to Jim; he'll hook you up. Only six woolongs a pack. Can't beat those prices in any other convenience store on Mars. Shop smart. Shop S-Mart.
I wake up. I go to work. I check the inventory (of cigarettes). I sit behind a counter and sell things (cigarettes) to people. I check the inventory (of cigarettes). I go home. I go to sleep. I wake up. I go to work. I check the inventory (of cigarettes). I sit behind a counter and sell things (cigarettes) to people. I check the inventory (of cigarettes). I go home. I go to sleep. I wake up... You get the picture.
Mother said to go to college. I, being the dutifully son that I am, said of course Mother whatever you say Mother. I went to college. Mother said to become a cryogenic doctor, there was good money in being a cryogenic doctor. I, being the dutifully son that I am, said of course Mother whatever you say Mother. I studied to be a cryogenic doctor. I failed at being a cryogenic doctor. Mother said to join the ISSP work force, there was good money in the ISSP. I, being the dutifully son that I am, said of course Mother whatever you say Mother. I joined the ISSP. I got kicked out of the ISSP for being a complete wimp. Mother said to become a bounty hunter, there was good money in being a bounty hunter. I, being the dutifully son that I am, said screw you Mother and haven't seen her in over ten years.
I sell cigarettes. Want one? S-Mart's the place for you. The only convenience store on Mars conveniently placed for your... convenience. God, I am such a loser.
The bells rings. I want to shoot that bell. Its annoyingly cheerful tinkle heralding the oncoming want for cigarettes. I'm a fat, balding, middle aged loser with a violently repressed sex life, and I'm going to loose a lung one day from staring at so much concentrated tar and nicotine in one small, cheaply made case year after endless year. And everyone who comes here should be the same. If they're not, they should be shot.
I look up.
Requirement check list for survival of customer:
Fat - Skinniest beanpole of a man I have ever laid eyes on. Strike one.
Balding - If having a green afro counts as being bald, then my life wouldn't be the lie that it is today. Strike two.
Middle aged loser - Young. Healthy. Vibrant. Damn him. Strike three.
Violently repressed sex life - ...Damn him. Strike four.
If I wasn't the pathetic wimp, as mentioned earlier, that I am, I would have shot the smug bastard the second he walked in. And he'll want cigarettes. Damn him!
The man swaggers to the counter and I, while setting down my porn magazine, wonder how long it took him to perfect that. Probably practiced in front of a mirror for hours. I snicker, then remember what a loser I am. He probably had it naturally. Damn him.
He leans an elbow on the counter. "Yo. Got any cigarettes?"
I stare at him, then down at the counter top. The clear glass counter top. The clear glass counter top that housed the display of S-Mart's wonderfully diverse assortment of cigarettes. Shop smart, kiddies. Shop S-Mart.
"Why, yes, sir." I curse his clear skin. Mine was blotchy and starting to sag. "S-Mart offers a wonderfully diverse assortment of cigarettes-" That your currently leaning on, you blind bastard. "-in many flavors from many different brands. S-Mart also offers them at the lowest price around, starting at only six woolongs a pack. Only the best for the convenience of our customers. Shop smart. Shop S-Mart."
The man blinks.
I stare back. If he made fun of my speech, I was going to shoot him. Or at least wait till he was a good five blocks away from the store and curse his name loudly. Because that's the type of loser that I am. Say hello to Jim, the wimp loser. Hello Jim, can I get a cigarette?
The man chews on his bottom lip. "Just get me the cheapest you got. Have anything for five woolongs?"
"Our most modestly priced pack starts at only six woolong, sir." Didn't I just say that?
"Oh." Oh is right, you cheap little... "Then just get me that one."
"Of course, sir." Idiot. I grab one, and slap it on the counter top between us. "Here you are, sir."
As he reaches for it, I notice he has what my Mother would call 'piano playing hands'. Long and slender. Damn him. He lights one up right then and there, and leans back with casual coolness. The type of cool only movie stars were suppose to have. I hate cool. Jim sells cigarettes for a living. I hate my life.
"So. Had many customers today?"
What type of idiotic question is that? S-Mart is the only convenience store on Mars conveniently placed for your convenience. "I wouldn't know, sir."
He chuckles, and I could tell my life meant nothing to him. My life means nothing to me. I sell cigarettes. I have a cat named Mabel. My neighbors from my apartment building think I'm a closet homosexual. Jim's the cigarette man. He'll hook you up with a good deal.
The man, with the same casualness I wanted to slap him for, flicks the barely spent cigarette onto the floor, reaches in his blue suit, and pulls out a gun.
Hallaluh! I could kiss him. I grip my rolled up porno mag, and grin at him. Loser Jim's Big Break! You could write a book about it. Then a movie. And a book rewritten of the movie. I could see it now. The Man Who Sold Cigarettes: the Life, the Death, the Epic Trilogy. And the man right here could play me. It would make millions.
He then turns away from me, and proceeds to slaughter five newly entered, heavily armed men. Who probably just wanted some cigarettes. He shoots them, breaks a few necks, knocks a few shelves over, guns down a few products, and walks out of the conveniently placed S-Mart door, leaving poor ol' Jim with five dead or mortally wounded random strangers. I'm probably going to get blamed for it too. S-Mart cashier snaps after years of service. Mother would be pleased. There's good money in being a crazed murderer. And chicks dig the bad boy image.
Unless you're a fat, balding, middle aged loser with a violently repressed sex life. Who sells cigarettes for a living.
Who am I kidding? My life sucks. People who are tall, thin, handsome, with an undeniable aura of coolness about them get all the sex. I'm about as straight as they come, and even I was willing to have a quick tumble in the sack with the guy.
...Who never paid for that pack of cigarettes.