"---the weather forecast for today. Now we go to Freddy Deren for this noon's--"
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George Rozier turned the radio off immediately after hearing Freddy Deren's name. He was annoyed that he wasn't able to hear the weather report (he was close to dozing off on the job) but it didn't stop his ingrained instinct of turning the radio off whenever Freddy "the Cadillac" Deren's name is being uttered by a newscaster, a disk jockey or anchorman, because it often means that either Freddy would be starting his usual shit, or a story about him would be discussed. George doesn't know Freddy personally, but it only took about three times of listening to him that got George hating the guy. The guy was too "fly" for his liking. Freddy was a jockey who talked like those cringy teenagers who act like they own the block or a gang or some bullshit, and George being a 42-year-old guy who hates teenagers, he hated Freddy more. Besides, why the fuck would a grown-ass man act like a damn teenage wannabe rapper? George has no idea how old Freddy was, but a guy with a reputation or anything similar to it in the broadcasting industry should be old enough not to act like an idiot, or so he thinks. The first time George heard him while he walking outside on his day off, the guy was ending his segment with "And now you, my Siera homies! Y'all should chill at home, stay cool, and love our Lord, not yo local drug lord! Peace!"
George almost burst out laughing at that one, not because it was funny, but because it sounded so stupid to him. The second time, the guy was ranting about "hoes bein too high in their nightlife" being babes of Babylon by whoring their nights away. George hated the way the guy talks like a gangster and mixes in one or two religious stuff which might be blasphemous or not. He prefers to think that it was the former. Sometimes, the guy even sounds normal, but George just hates Freddy, which he thinks isn't even his real name. He'll stick a donkey up his ass before he listens to the guy again.
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George looked around the store and sighed. The convenience store was empty even though the sun was already showing off its noon heat. He didn't really care much whether people come in, and it would be good to have customers here and there, but he hates it when the store is crowded. It usually happens around noon, but it seemed to George that nothing like that would happen today. The day was just slow, and there was an odd feeling of the atmosphere being barren. He walked around the counter and approached the glass door. He watched the few people outside go about their business. He knew some of them, and some of them just looked familiar. There was no human being outside the store he would consider a complete stranger though, due to the fact that Siera is a private town, filled mostly with people who had been born and raised in it, with only a few exceptions of some who were invited once by a friend or family member, who might or might not have decided to stay. These people (the invited ones), might have been strangers once, but the town has somewhat made them "noticeable", somehow gave them some kind of invisible spotlight, and now they dwell in the place (permanently or not) with the town planting itself into a piece of their existence, making them a part of it one way or another. George Rozier liked to think that Siera (with the town's name sounding like a woman) has some kind of ability to seduce its visitors, and at the same time push some of them away. Visitors either stay, maybe settle down, or they never come back, just a simple black or white choice. This sounded strange even to George, but it wasn't as if the town had many visitors, so coincidence was still possible. Scratch that, everything was a coincidence, besides, a town couldn't possibly be literally alive, right?
George laughed, or if you could call it that. It sounded more like a cough, but it was a laugh all the same. He raised his head and gazed at the sky and smiled. "Well, it isn't beautiful, dadgummit. It still hurts my eyes as always. But fuck me twice, I love this town, " George muttered to himself. And he really did love this town. He grew up here, he knew the people here, and he was pretty sure he was going to die here. (or at least he hoped to). He walked back behind the counter to look for a spare magazine or book somewhere in the drawers. He was bent down and rummaging for something to read when he heard the door chime and when he straightened up to look, a man in his late twenties stood just inside the door, rubbing the soles of his shoes against the rough doormat.
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"What the fuck are you doing? You stepped on dogshit or something?" George said with obvious irritation. "Just so you know, I also clean that mat."
"It ain't dogshit. Just some bubblegum an idiot spit on the street." Danny Bianchi said, his lips curled up into a smile, still continuing to rub his soles against the mat, maybe even more briskly.
"Good for you, bad shit for me. Stop that, do it against some asphalt outside. I don't want to clean that mat. That's pretty hard to clean if you put gum between its fibers, you know."
Danny stopped, but only after giving one final hard swipe of his shoe against the mat, to which George said with intense restrained emotion, "Oh you mooootherfuckerrrr." Danny only grinned, and George grinned back, then flipped him the bird after. Danny proceeded then to browse the shelves, his grin slowly fading to a look of concentration.
"So, how's Julia?" George asked as he continued rummaging through the drawers, but this time he kept his body from bending down too much, so he could still switch his gaze from the drawers back to Danny, or maybe glance at the door and outside to keep himself in tune with whatever might be happening outside.
"Juliiiaaaaaa," Danny said, as if he was trying to remember the name (even though Julia is his wife), but was actually just not really focusing on the conversation, his mind and eyes concentrating on the shelves, "yeaaahhhh, she's still breathing at least."
The last line brought George to a pause, his hands stopping from flicking through the stack of magazines he found, then his eyes lingering for a second or two to where Danny was. He then just randomly picked a magazine without looking, not knowing that a pornographic magazine was what he picked, and tossed it to the desk behind him. (Theatrics. There had to be something like it at times.) He was still watching Danny as Danny approached the counter, cradling a bunch of items in his arms. "Still breathing, at least? What the hell does that mean?" George asked, his tone filled with curiosity which made Danny look him in the eye and smile nervously.
"That is probably one of the reasons why I'm here," Danny said, his eyes dropping a bit to the right. George sensed that Danny was serious, maybe a bit wary. "Well, punch these items first." George nodded, knowing that Danny just planned to choose his words carefully before speaking his mind. He punched the items one by one, taking mental note of what they were, what could they used for, alone or with the other items. Shaving kit, shaving cream, alcohol, some energy bars. Well, nothing suspicious in any of these, but maybe there was something he was missing, or maybe there was none. But the items just seemed to be picked at random, or maybe George was thinking about it too much. George took a deep breath as everything was punched, accepted payment from Danny, and waited. Danny was also looking at him, but what George saw in his eyes made him pity the man. There were purple bags under Danny's eyes, and the eyes themselves look tired. They look a bit otherworldly as if the man was thinking of something else rather than of things in front of him as if he was watching a far-fetched dream unfold before his eyes despite the reality of where he is. Then George saw a sudden change in the man's eyes as if Danny remembered something, and for a moment, George saw intense horror in those same eyes. Danny rubbed his eyes briskly and spoke.
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