The End Times kind of suck

Yesterday after work I had a bulge in my pocket from the wad of cash I'd received from my 34 bags of aluminum cans. Six dollars! If I'd turned it in a day before, I would have made 105 dollars, but aluminum prices have been plummeting. You'd think that with so much of the Gulf Coast gone, the demand for aluminum would be up because of rebuilding efforts, but maybe they won't start rebuilding until after hurricane season.

 

My first stop was Thornton's, because I was running on fumes. This Thornton's was the only gas station in operation in a twenty-block radius, as was made clear by the long line. Cars stretched out of the parking lot and all the way down the street, passing under a tent of shredded tree limbs and sparking electrical lines.

 

I couldn't tell the price of the gas because Ike had blown all the letters off the sign; now it said "Unl    . 1   ," under which is said " fo tlong hot    $ . 1."  Nines and decimal points have lower wind resistance and so stay put during windstorms.

 

In the time that my attention was taken by the signs, the car in front of me was looted and burned. Some of my fellow motorists took advantage of the flames to cook some near-botulistic chicken breasts.

 

I pulled around the Hyundai grill and, after a short hour, made it up to the gas pump. The red-marker sign said that it was now a cash-only operation, with silver or gold bullion preferred. I locked the car and headed inside, thankful for my wad of cash.

 

The frazzled man in front of me was yelling into his cell phone, "Sorry, what? You're breaking up. I think a bunch of the cell towers were damaged. What? What?! Yeah, honey, tell them to divest. Tell them to sell. Wall Street is burning, hon, so I need you to place that call for me. I can't get through…"

 

The cashier barked at him, "C'mon, bud, people are waiting."

 

The man, still on his cell phone, pulled out a credit card. The cashier held up his hands, shook his head, and said, "Cash only. Can't you read?"

 

I looked nervously back toward the pumps. A couple of guys in hoods were edging closer to my car. They had a tray of uncooked hamburgers.

 

The cell phone man was still talking on his phone, and the cashier--who had obviously had a rough day and had been without showering at least as long as I had--pulled a shotgun from behind the counter and pressed it to the cell phone man's forehead.

 

"I'm sorry, hon, I gotta go. I said I gotta go. GOT TO GO!" He folded and pocketed his phone, then looked sheepishly at the cashier from under the double-barrels. "Would you accept a gold wedding ring as payment for a fill up?" he asked.

 

The cashier pulled the gun away from the man's head. I could see on the man's forehead the red imprint of O O from the muzzle. The cashier took the ring, then took two quick steps to the door, kicked it open, and fired one barrel of the gun. BOOM. The blast tore the plate of uncooked meat from the hands of the hoodies, and splattered hamburger across my car's windshield. The two would-be chefs took off running.

 

The cashier turned back and gave the man a receipt. I stepped up to the counter, saw the gas price on an index card taped to the cash register, and realized that with six dollars I had enough for not just half of a gallon but also a bag of charcoal.

 

Then as I paid, the cashier said, "This kinda crap won't be happening once Palin is in office. She's a reformer."

 

"So is Obama," said the lady behind me. The cashier looked at his shotgun, but merely nodded.

 

My drive home took a little longer than usual because none of the traffic lights were working. The streets were lined with sawed-up tree limbs, which I thought was poor planning. People should stack them in their back yards for future cooking fires.

 

It was getting dark, and with no light pollution, the stars were brilliant. The moon was coming up. Most of the marker had been removed, but I could still barely make out the words "Yard sale."