Spike was lost. Completely and utterly lost. Unforgiving, invasive neon lights blared down on his already pasty-white, and now nearly translucent skin. He turned around twice, three times, searching the aisles that seemed to be getting more and more narrow with every passing second. Nothing made sense here.
Where were the bloody pretzels?
Everybody knows that pretzels go with beer! They should be right next to each other. It was only logical. Where the hell else could they be? The store was fucking massive—they could be anywhere!
Never mind that. One problem at a time, Spike decided. First he had to figure out what kind of beer to get. He took a step back from his empty shopping cart, and perused the selection. Definitely none of this American piss. Harp? That was a good one. But they only had it in those prissy skinny cans with the ping-pong balls inside. And he never did care much for the name. ‘Cause who plays harps, eh? Yeah, that’s right. That would just not do at all.
“Ahem,” sounded a short bald man, holding a huge case of piss-in-a-can.
Or there was Guinness. That was a real man’s beer: Dark, strong, old, Irish. Oh, damn. That was out too then.
“Ahem!” the short ugly bloke coughed again.
“Bass it is then,” Spike mumbled, and dumped 3 cases in his cart. “Nasty cough, mate. Should get that looked at,” said Spike to the man who was now sitting on his case of beer in the middle of the aisle. “And, you’re in the way, so move!” he added, threatening to run the guy over with his cart.
“Bloody git.”
Finding himself in the frozen food section, Spike did what any self-respecting bachelor would, and loaded up on microwave dinners— the microwave being the one modern appliance he'd had plenty of experience with. Next to the onion rings, he found a pretty young brunette, decked out in converse and ripped jeans. Bored, he pulled his cart up next to hers, making an ungodly screeching noise as they scraped against each other.
“Where’s a bloke to find the bleedin’ pretzels in this mad house?” he asked suavely, with a twitch of a smile.
She looked him over, seemingly pleased with what she found. “Pretzels? With the other junk food, I guess. Two aisles back. Having a party?” she asked, taking note of the mass amounts of beer.
“Nah. But if I were, you’d get an invite, certain.” That got a smile. “Nice shirt.”
“Yeah? You like The Stranglers?”
“Damn Brilliant, they are! I saw their first gig you know,” he said, tossing a Swanson TV dinner in the air and catching it repeatedly.
“In like, 1977? When you were what? Five?” she scoffed.
“Well, now, I…”
“Whatever. We’re blocking the way,” she said, directing his attention to the jam-up of carts behind them that went back to the other end of the aisle.
“Who bloody well cares!” Spike called after her, as she pushed away. “They can go around!” But she was gone. “Cripes!”
Peanut Butter. He had finally found it. And by some miracle, they had put the grape jelly right next to it. Finally got something right. By this point, Spike was famished. As he made his way through the breakfast cereals, he opened the jar of PB and dove his index and middle fingers in, pulling out a nice smooth, sticky mess. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, and licked the substance off with deep, almost erotic satisfaction.
“You can’t do that,” said a man in a gray suit standing a few feet away.
“What?” Spike asked, licking the last of the peanut butter off his middle finger.
“Eat that. You can’t eat it until you buy it. You’re not allowed,” he barked.
“And who are you? The bleedin’ Foodland police?”
“No. I’m just telling you: you-are-not-a-llowed.”
“Well I’m just telling you: I-don’t-give-a-fuck”
“What the hell is your problem buddy?”
“Well, that’s a pretty stupid question. One that I can answer more eloquently with… beating you up.”
“What?”
Dropping the peanut butter to the floor, Spike took a solid swing at the suit, who was not a small man by any definition of the word: he fought back—which only pleased Spike more, really, guaranteeing a sporting fight. The man rammed into him, sending a display of assorted bagels flying across the floor. Spike sprang to his feet quickly, and kneed the suit in the gut. He grabbed a hold of a large jar of raspberry jam, however, and smashed it into Spike’s scull.
“Owe!” Spike yelled, kicking him in the chest, and sending him flying backwards into his own shopping cart. Spike took this golden opportunity to thrust the cart forward down the aisle, and into the meat and poultry.
“This is just not bloody worth it!” Spike moaned, rubbing the sore spot at the back of his scull. As shocked and stupefied customers and employees gaped at him, he stormed out of the supermarket, leaving his cart of beer and frozen dinners behind.
What a waste of time! At least he got in a good brawl. And if there ever was a wanker who deserved… it was just… he did want that peanut butter so! Oh well. Being human, doing all these incessant humaney things was going to take some practice. In the meantime, he would just have to order take-out.
COMMENTS WELCOME!
kangarootaboo@yahoo.ca
