That Ol' Stabby Feelin'

Editor's Note: The following is an excerpt from the Private Journals of Christopher J. Sims. It should be noted that despite being referred to by his close friends as "one hateful sonofabitch," he has calmed down quite a bit since the original writing, especially after attending a party where a girl in a short white dress spilled beer on herself. He is also prone to extreme hyperbole, and therefore any references to his intent to visit grievous bodily harm upon others should be ignored.

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It's a Goddamn miracle I haven't stabbed anyone today.

Allow me to explain: As I write this, I'm dead in the middle of an all-day shift here at the Wiz, and I think this might be the one that finally kills me.

It's only two hours longer than my normal weekday shift, but it feels like it's lasted eons. Entire civilizations have risen, thrived, and fallen while I've been ringing up Star Wars merchandise for a constant parade of soul-less Un-Men that featured an All-Star roster including the Cap'n, Gigolo Sam, Fleagle and Bingo, and a host of others. And while the old song says that the freaks come out at night, there were plenty waiting outside the door at 11 AM.

I want to destroy them all.

Even the children.

Especially the children.

See what it's done to me? I've been reduced to spouting angry Warren Ellis quotes. Of course, you'd be a smouldering pile of rage too if you had to deal with these kids.

Let's talk about Brandon. I know his name because every five minutes--like some kind of sadistic clockwork--his father would, without pausing from going through the quarter books, shout it in a savage, angry baritone. Brandon would then stop screwing around with our DVD player and immediately give his conditioned answer: "RIGHT HERE!"

It was some Chinese water torture shit. Especially considering that Brandon, a unibrowed little hellion, had a mild speech impediment, so that every couple of minutes I got this:

"BRANDON!"

"WIGHT HE-AW!"

They were there for three hours. Or, in relative time, several million years. Making matters worse during the Epoch of Brandon was an extremely obese gentleman sporting a t-shirt reading "LARGE and IN CHARGE" that, really, robbed us all of our dignity. He wandered around the store sniffing to clear his nose every few seconds. But I'm not talking little sniffles--it was like the fucker was planning something. They were long, drawn out, and made a nosie that hit my soul like broken glass on a chalkboard.

But these are normally just minor annoyances. These folks can't control it, for the most part--although that guy could've picked out another shirt--and my peaceful Buddha nature is enough to let it slide off, and it would've today if I hadn't already been put on edge by the others.

The store is moving. We are having, therefore, a Moving Sale There are four signs in the front window, a big poster just inside the door on an easel, and flyers on the counter. And while I'm pretty tired of constantly being asked where we're moving, I'm not going to fault people for wanting to continue to patronize our store.

I will, however, find fault with the countless hordes who stumble in and ask if we're moving. And by "find fault with," I mean "stab."

Yes, you illiterate masses, we are moving. HENCE THE SIGNS.

Like I said, everyone who comes in has asked where we're moving, and beyond the repetition of it, I don't mind. But these are the people who are not only annoying, but are adding an entirely new and unnecessary step to the process. They are killing me by inches.

I swear to you, I'm operating on four hours of sleep and the only thing keeping me from stabbing these bastards in the face with the very pen I now hold is Iron Maiden's "Flight of Icarus."

A few others of note:

Guy walks over to the counter and points to one of the display cases. "How much for the Fantastic Four statue?"

I don't remember there being an FF statue in the case, but most of the time that stuff can change without me being aware, so I go over to see which statue he means. there is, of course, no Fantastic Four statue in the case.

"Uh, which one did you want to know about?"

"The Fantastic Four statue. That one." He points to a statue of the original JLA fighting Starro, inspired by Brave and the Bold #28.

"Oh," says I, "That's actually the Justice League, sir. It's about two hundred bucks."

"Oh, right," he says. "I thought it was the Fantastic Four."

"Ah." I look back at the statue, then back at him, realizing immediately that a) I can't resist, and b) I'm not a very good person. "Well, see, there's five of them. That's how you can tell."

Later, a dude walks up and asks how he should go about selling his comics, and brother, was he sitting on a gold mine. I listened patiently, for I am saintly and wise, as he told me that he had the first three hundred issues each of Legends of the Dark Knight and Shadow of the Bat. Then I told him that Shadow of the Bat ended at #94, and Legends of the Dark Knight #196 just came out last week. He was completely unfazed, and just told me that it was all right, because he had ten copies each of the first issues.

He also told me he had Brave and the Bold #12, "from when Batman first came out," which not only didn't make any sense, but I'm pretty sure wasn't true because he's a fucking liar.

And for God's sake, people. Sweatpants are not to be worn in public.