Monday, June 20, 2005

   When Chibis Attack! Part 8
Earlier chapters are archived here.

Part 8: In Which a Felony is Committed



Eventually, it is discovered that alcohol is an excellent solvent, helping dissolve gum as well as problems.

Eventually, it is discovered that the same super-deformed physics that allow Kougaiji to have more tears than blood also allow Goku to contain a greater mass of food than... well, than volume of Goku. NASA is not called for comment.

Eventually there is no more pie.





And, eventually, the relatively law-abiding segment of the group fall into what passes for sleep.

Meanwhile, a pair of nicotine-deprived miniatures have concocted a plan.

Desperation makes for strange plans.





"A carton of Marlboro Red and a carton of Hi-Lites."

Mr. Clerk has worked the midnight shift at the 7-11 for more years than the sum total of his schooling. He makes slightly better wages than his cousin, Mr. M. Wage-Clerk at the liquor store. He tries not to let it go to his head.

Nevertheless, experience has taught him to identify the underage with the speed of a chat-room pervert.

"ID, kid."

"I'm not a bloody kid. Here's my gold card. Is that ID enough, old man?"

Mr. Clerk feels that the odd shape in a long coat is a prime example of what happens when kids don't have enough After School Activities, like Part-Time Jobs. He feels, deep within himself, the altruistic urge to Set Things Straight.

The Straightening begins with The Sigh.




"Listen, kid. I know what it's like. I started smoking young myself, and it took me the better part of my life to quite."

"That's nice. See the card?"

"Sometimes I would "borrow" my parents money... or their cards." He makes the Ear Bunnies of Quoting. Ear Bunnies naturally follow The Sigh in his pattern of oratory.

"I mean, look at you. I can tell you're standing on another kid's shoulders. And you're still not as tall as a grade-schooler..." Mr. Clerk's Check Reality light has been worn down by too many graveyard shifts and past-expiry hoagies. Still, it flickers a feeble warning. "How old are you kids, anyway?"





The top figure in the long coat Has Had Enough. He grabs the counter in one pudgy hand and whips out a small silver gun. The bottom figure curses and wobbles at the sudden movement.

"Look. It's been a long day, and I need a goddamn cigarette. Hand them over, pops. Now."





Mr. Clerk has worked the midnight shift long enough to recognize almost all modern weaponry, and some of the ancient classics. He has America's Most Wanted on speed-dial, just in case. He gives due consideration to the gun, noting the delightful heart motif on the side.

The Sigh is invoked again.

"Kiss and Hugson, eh? Put it down, kid. I'm calling your mom. Both of your mothers. I'm surprised little guys like you are out at this time of night." Mr. Clerk notes that the little gun is now shaking, and chalks one up to the Fear of God having been put back into a Troubled Child. Being unfamiliar with Buddhist Monks, he is not in a position to grasp the irony of this thought.

As he turns his back to the counter and picks up the phone, neither is he in a position to see two Chibis climbing onto the counter, rolling up their sleeves.

His last, unintentionally humorous, words are:

"Really, I blame television..."




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