Closing Time Bloody Closing Time

The store was empty as I began locking up. Seeing that there were tons of chocolate bars lying around, I took a few; no one would know. Anyways, we lost pretty much everything when we got robbed by Jojo the dog-faced boy earlier today. Holy lord, what a mess. The jingle of the door chimes interrupted my reflection.

"Hey. Is it too late to get a Lotto 666 ticket?" My god a customer! And my store in such a state... "Not at all" I responded. Just then the telephone rang.

*brrrriinnngggg*

"Can I get that? I'm expecting a call" asked the gentleman. He looked well dressed and responsible enough so I let him answer it. "Carlito! Damn, how's the drug cartel, ese?" he said as he drifted into conversation. As I stuffed the last chocolate bar down my pants, a squeal of tires screeched past the broken shambles that was my store. Walking outside, I happened to see the screeching car ram into a telephone pole. 3 disoriented teens got out the back of the car, stumbled towards me and asked if they could use my bathroom to wash off the blood of the deceased driver. I didn't see why not. "Sure go ahead."

As I re-entered the store, the well-dressed chap had just hung up the phone. "It was for me" he said as I handed him his lottery ticket from the tray. As he walked out, he was recognized by one of the teens who, in a flash, whipped out a baseball bat and proceeded to pound the lotto-man in the crotchal area. After the rest of them had joined in and taken turns in the beating, they nabbed some chips and ran off. I took the opportunity to search the gentleman near death. Apparently, he was a tax collector on his way to (according to a blood-stained memo) the residence of 4 tax-dodging teen delinquents who, in an attempt to avoid him, had escaped in their car and run into a telephone pole.

So naturally there would be hostile feelings on both sides.

I cleared my brain with an emergency tequila I kept behind the counter and passed out. When I woke up the store was gone.

Goddamn that Jojo.

"The Rev. is a known recluse and operates out of his East York basement. Many lonely hours howling at the moon and typing these stories for CoN have ruined any kind of friendship with the neighbours."