The familiar squeak and stretch of the weathered rubber mat told Marc that, unfortunately, he had depleted the supply of some expendable household items and had ended up walking into the god-forsaken-hell-hole known by the locals as "Plenty Full Grocery." Marc resented the fact that from time to time he needed to rely on the economy and its goods to make it from day to day. Usually a bulk buyer, he was sickened by the high prices and their attempts to gouge away whatever green was left in his worn, leather wallet. Marc had always thought, "If I'll need to buy it again in a month, it's not worth getting," and that seemed to work out for Marc. Unfortunately, something had run out so he was once again embraced by the easy-listening music and frigid cold of the coolers all too familiar to him.

It must have been at least three in the afternoon when Marc entered the local supermarket in search of a few "required" goods. He needed milk, no less than two gallons, some ballpark franks, presumably for dinner, and a roll of paper towels to sop up the grotesque brown liquid congealing underneath his television. Some would say it was a rather unique shopping list. Marc Geoffrey would say it was only the necessities. In all actuality, it didn't matter what everyone else thought of his needs because Marc just didn’t give a damn about anyone else. Neighbors in his run-down apartment complex would criticize him for watering the ferns he kept with milk instead of water and would often belittle him on account of him never wearing any pants besides his faded charcoal, linen slacks. Marc resented his neighbors.

Marc was simply the kind of man made to be ridiculed. Upon walking into Plenty Full Grocery, heads were guaranteed to turn. This was most likely due to his black, torn, Def Leppard 1983 "On Through the Night" sweatshirt and battered beret that he was never seen without. It was hard to figure out if the beret was authentic or not. Nobody would put it past Marc to buy or "obtain" one on his own accord, but perhaps in an earlier time he knew someone who fought in the war. It most certainly wasn't himself. Mr. Geoffrey must have been pushing close to 260 pounds while only standing at five feet, seven inches. He was quite the opposite of an athlete. All that aside, he didn't care what others thought of him or his appearance. He planned on entering and exiting the supermarket before anyone had the opportunity to ask if the beret was authentic. If anyone did get close, he made it a priority to make them wish they didn't.

Back to reality, Marc made his way past what they called the delicatessen and approached the paper towel display hastily... as if he were being followed. Marc swiped a roll and consulted with the overhanging boards to figure out where he was and how he could get to the next objective, that being an eight-pack of ballpark franks. He navigated through the sea of supermarket patrons who seemed to have a hard time ignoring Marc and tending to their shopping list and children. The chill of the freezer section left Marc in search of some salvation. Marc fumbled for the mittens he kept in his pockets as he clumsily stuck the newly obtained paper towels in between his arm. Bluffo, Porky's, and Moyer hotdogs stood in front of Marc in a dimly lit, mildly cold shelf. Of course they didn't have the brand that he desired... he settled for Moyer and made off towards the dairy section, all the while ignoring the cramp that was growing along his ankle.

His mission was one third complete. Milk was now his ticket back to his hideaway. Dodging carts and pushing children over can be quite trying on one's body. Marc took a lean on the canned vegetables end-cap. "How could the masses be so hypnotized into thinking shopping is a good idea?" He would hear comments such as...

"Oh I've got a coupon for this!"

"I save money if I buy three..."

"Pepsi? Yummy!"

"I'll buy you a candy bar if you sit still."

"How will we make it through the week without more bottled water?"

It was enough to drive a sane man crazy and an insane man dead. Marc Geoffrey didn't have time for this nonsense though. He forced himself past a blockade of rusting shopping carts and reached beyond the front gallons of milk and produced two gallons dated four days fresher than the ones in the front.

"Amateurs..." scoffed Marc as he walked away still pinning paper towels and hotdogs between his arms and ches…to the front of the store now... checkout time. But a sudden pain on his left ankle made him stop short in front of a frozen pizza display. He knew what was causing the pain, and he hoped it would subside and cease to bother him. It was an irritation greater than a minor rash or muscle strain. It was something that couldn't be dealt with by a doctor. It was something else. He stood back up. "Keep your composure" he thought. When Marc finally reached the checkout lanes, a sigh of discomfort emanated from Marc's dry, cracked lips. The cashiers were working at full force, yet the lines ran at least five people deep. There must have been at least forty people standing in the front of the store waiting to pay for their goods and be on their way. He stood in line and marched forward when everyone else did. He became a part of the machine. His arms grew tired from bearing the two containers of milk, but low and behold, the belt leading to the checkout scanner opened up enough space for him to set down the jugs. It was nearly time to leave. The rubber tram pulled his groceries forward to an elderly old man in a beige vest.

"Howdy," he said to Marc in a raspy voice. A nod was all Marc could produce at that point in time. The cashier fumbled with the single roll of paper towels for a good twenty seconds before the digital display flashed $7.83 at Marc.

Without hesitation, Marc said, "Those are priced wrong. The display lists them as $2.48". ''I'm sorry son, I can't quite do anything about that," the man replied as he scanned the milks without so much as glancing at Marc. Many a furious swipe over the scanner later, the old man picked up the rustic phone next to him and uttered, "Price check on two percent milk please".

"J---s C----t...." Mark thought to himself. He tapped his foot impatiently and checked the time on his cell phone. He was inside far longer than he had hoped he would be. The old man stood there and smiled while rubbing the side of his neck. A few moments later the phone rang again. The withered cashier held it up to his ear at a distance that would make you think the person on the other line was trying to cast a curse on him or something. The phone was set back down and the green lights produced a $5.42. Marc was okay with that. Now the franks and he'd be gone.

"Your total is $14.23, sir," the man stated.

"You've forgotten my hot dogs," Marc said as if he was unsure if the man was joking.

“I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't let you purchase those. Did you know they kill poor animals to make these atrocities?" the man asked as if Marc didn't already know and much less care. Veins began to pop from Marc's neck. He couldn't handle one more issue arising. Little did anyone know, they didn't want an "issue" with Marc Geoffrey.

Marc abruptly spat out, "Just charge it to my card." He pulled his American Express card out of his back pocket and into the cashier's liver-spotted hand.

"Sorry, we don't except AmEx," informed the cashier.

It was too late for everyone at that point. The pain in his left ankle had grown and was now pulsating so intensely that Marc was convinced everyone could hear it. He bent down and out of his boot, Mr. Geoffrey produced a Browning 9mm pistol and held it in front of the cashier. One final beep was sounded as the old man dropped the credit card on the scanner to display a "Declined" in front of Marc. There were no survivors.