3.a.viii
Tanya and Mr.
Jones were in the checkout lane of the Shepley’s electronics department waiting
to buy the toy raygun and PDA that Mr. Jones had selected. He held the baggy of greed-links up to his
face and said, “Well, they’ve stopped twitching.”
Tanya reached
up and yanked his hands down, then looked about to see if anyone had seen.
“Dude, did you
turd in a bag?” a moppy-haired, never-seen-an-actual-ocean surfer guy
said. He brushed his bleached locks out
of his eyes, leaned down, and peered into the bag. After a moment he said, “Dude. You did.
Oh man. Totally sick. And not sick as in man that’s sick. Just plain sick. Hey, why carry it around
with you? And why walk around a
supermarket with it? Oh, and dude,
seriously, as a side note, based on what I’m scoping in that baggy there,
something’s seriously wrong with your bowels bro.”
“Would you
like to go ahead of us?” Mr. Jones asked, his gesture indicating that the
surfer-man should move forward.
“Awesome,” he
said, swaggering toward the awaiting checker.
“I’m haulin’ a couple more things than you, though. You just got that toy gun, the PDA thing, and
your poop bag. But heck, not gonna be
one to look at a gift horse you know.”
The surferish
guy began a round of pleasantries with the checker. Tanya and Mr. Jones shared a look, the silent
conversation between them being a shared consensus that, perhaps, The Greed
pieces should remain tucked away until they took up residency in the toy gun.
“Seriously,” the
pseudo surf boy was saying to the checker.
“Nastiest thing I seen all week.
Check it out when he comes through.
Make you wanna hurl. But hey, be gentle
with him. Dude’s sick, yo. Needs to see a butt doctor or something.”
