Written yesterday morning, this post has been delayed by work and an internet outage in my area. It was inspired from a prompt in "642 Things to Write About".
The floor was filthy.
In the grand scheme of things, this was the least of my problems. At the moment, however, with the floor filling my entire view it was the most important thing that I had to deal with right then.
The floor wasn't even particularly a nice floor. It was one of those beige plastic tiles with the faux marble print, the type that you find in pretty much every supermarket that has ever existed. Why would anyone would use a colour that seemed to magnify and highlight the dirt when there was so much food around?
A child whimpered nearby. The mother tried to shush it, but heavy footsteps moved towards it. There was a loud click, the sound of someone prepping a gun.
"Shut that kid up," said a loud male voice, the voice I started to think of as Ringleader. "Shut him up or I will."
There was a bit of a scuffle, or some sort of movement. Then there was silence. The footsteps moved away from us, and I went back to examining the floor.
This wasn't the way I'd envisioned spending my Friday night. Being in a supermarket at all hadn't been part of the plan, really. But then I'd had a craving for spaghetti bolognese, and the lack of bolognese meant I needed to stop here if I wanted to eat.
I never did like this supermarket. The fact I found myself in the middle of an armed robbery within its walls wasn't the only reason. The floors were filthy. I'd have to email the manager later.
There was more stomping, followed by a few muffled voices.
The robbers had seemed surprised that there were people shopping in the store when they decided to rob it. I'm not a marketing expert, but I pretty much always expect to see people buying food at six on a Friday night. Enough people that I'd briefly questioned whether I'd really needed to eat spaghetti bolognese, or if I could have gotten away with a ham sandwich. The spaghetti had sounded appealing enough I'd decided to risk any long lines.
My stomach rumbled.
If I'd just made the damned sandwich I'd be home watching The Bachelor right now, and not worrying about if I'd even get home at all.
A boot passed by my head on its way to the manager's office.
The manager was one of those paranoid guys who had always worried about the place getting robbed, and so he spent most of his time locked in his office behind a three-inch steel door with a bullet proof window through which he watched what his employees were doing. The town had always laughed at him. Who would want to rob a two bit grocery store in the middle of nowhere.
The other boot barely missed my ear by inches.
The manager was going to be completely insufferable after this. We'd all have to find somewhere else to shop if we didn't want to hear an unending stream of "I told you so".
My neck was starting to hurt.
I hadn't really been thinking about long term contemplation of linoleum when I'd dropped at hte barked order to hit the floor. I hadn't really been thinking anything other than wondering why the manager had had the store rearranged again so I couldn't find the aisle with the spaghetti sauces. He was constantly rearranging things in an effort to increasehis sales. He probably would have done a better job of increasing them if he moved to a store that had some actual frontage. And a sign.
Ringleader banged on the steel door for about the hundredth time. "Get your ass out here!"
There was a muffled reply. I couldn't hear it clearly, but knowing the manager it was a probably a string of swearing that could have easilybeen replaced by a more polite "No" and have it done with.
"If you don't get out here," Ringleader shouted again, "I'm going to start shooting. You may walk out of this with your money and your life, but you'll have no clientele left to speak of."
All I could think was that he had no clientele to speak of right now. People who were despereate for food and couldn't get to one of the big chains were who shopped here, but only when they had to. People rushing home from work and happening to see the shop when they ran by shopped here occasionally. The shadier elements of the neighbourhood loved this place. It probably wouldn't hurt to have some of the clientele cleaned out.
Then I remembered I was one of those clientele, and I wasn't quite as smug.
There was a long, long pause. I kept my eyes on the dirty floor, trying to distract myself by figuring out where the various bits of dirt had come from.
Eventually there was a loud click. It wasn't the same sound as the gun, and it was followed by a loud creaking noise, so I assumed it was the manager.
To hell with his money and his life, to get at this guy just threaten to end his future source of income and he'd become a hero. I wasn't entirely sure if I should be pleased or not.
There was more shouting, and a scuffle. Something banged hard against something else, hard enough that I could hear everyone on the floor wince with me at the sound. There were a couple of shots, and everyone on the floor gasped quietly.
The manager was a bit of a bastard, but he really didn't need to be shot. Where would I buy my bolognese if he wasn't here to sell it to me?
After another long pause, quieter footfalls approached us. I held my breath, not sure what should be done next, and hoping it was just laying on the floor til these guys left so we could go on with our day.
Or spend it talking to the police about the murder of our store manager, which seemed more likely. Damn it.
There was a soft clearing of the throat to my left.
"Um, it's ok now." That sounded awfully like the manager. But we'd heard...
"No, really, it's ok. You can all get up now."
I turned my head a little and looked up as best as I could. I saw black leather loafers, and then grey slacks. Tilting a little more awkwardly, I saw the dostorted face of the manager standing over me, holding one of the guns that Ringleader had been carrying.
I blinked.
The manager smiled his mild mannered middle-aged manager smile, and walked towards the front door, dropping the gun on one of the cashier counters. He held up his hands and stopped at the front door, waving through the glass.
I stood up, slowly. Everyone else was styaing on the ground, and I couldn't completely blame them. But the manager was walking around as if it was a typical business night, and I was wonderign why he wasn't dead yet.
I looked around, at aisels covered with tins of beans, and boxes of cereal, and other items that had been knocked off shelves in the original confrontation. I turned towards the maanger's office, and there on the floor was Ringleader. His massive body, clothed in black, was quickly being surrounded by a pool of red liquid.
I turned a little more, and saw two more men in black laying on the floor nearby.
Police flooded in, and we were all quickly escorted out into a waiting bus. Only stretchers left that store after the customers were gone.
Stretchers, and the manager looking as pleased as if he'd just finished off his Thanksgiving sales.
I walked home slowly, wondering where else I could get spaghetti bolognese at this hour.
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