Work Text:
It’s late. You’re tired. There’s a half empty can of soda at your register, and a bag of your favorite chips, open, and half hidden underneath. You’re by yourself, and it’s getting close to closing. It’s been slow all evening, and by now, now that it’s closing in on midnight, it’s basically a ghost town.
You swipe a few chips, crunching them down, and take a swig of soda, almost throwing it down when you hear the doors slide open with a hiss. Can’t be seen actually consuming sustenance, after all.
A man comes in, of indeterminate height. His face is painted like a skull, but sweat cuts tracks through some of the paint, and it’s worn off around his mouth somewhat. He’s wearing a sparkly silver jacket, and it hits you as he wanders up to your checkout lane, that he’s just been performing. This is the current lead singer of Ghost.
The radio, which had been playing nineties stuff mostly, and had just finished Sandman by Metallica a couple of minutes ago, becomes sharp and clear in your ears.
“Well that’s embarrassing,” he says. “That’s me. The ghouls need Funyuns.”
You know exactly who this is in front of you, as you fumble to remember where the goddamned chips are, the skull mask glinting in the old fluorescents, and you can see both of his strange, mismatched yes, at this angle one is almost black, a pit in the socket, the other a blind staring white that you know could see inside your soul.
“Funyuns are in Aisle seven,” you say, finally, Papa has been so patient with you even though he’s probably exhausted from performing.
“Grazie,” he says, wandering off through the store as Papa on the radio starts singing about putting his love in you, and you are very glad that he is not present for your blushing.
It is such a damn good thing your coworkers aren’t present either. They’d never believe that Papa V Perpetua came into your stupid little convenience store to buy Funyuns at 11:56pm, but you don’t care. If they’d borne witness, you’d be dead right now.
You quickly shovel the last chips from the tiny fifty cent bag in your mouth, and drain your soda. He isn’t just in the chip aisle, you can hear the sharp noises his feet make in the distance, tile squeaking now and then.
You try not to think about the aggressive cowbell, or that incredible solo of guitar, drum, and keytar, that you’ve always joked was the fuckin’ part, or maybe the orgasms.
You push a couple of buttons on your cash register so that it doesn’t shut down, ten minute delay. You can push it again if you have to. You are not telling him that it’s now 12:01 am, and you are now listening to Springsteen, waiting to be able to close your register and go home, maybe catch a few hours of sleep.
Springsteen is finishing about the time he is coming back up to the register, and the basket he’d picked up somewhere in the store contains multitudes.
He sets down three giant bags of Funyuns (one flaming hot), two Diet Cokes, a Sprite Zero, four orange sodas, a beer, and some beef jerky, and then sets out a second Sprite Zero. “That’s for you,” he says, and you stare at him.
You scan everything on autopilot, although at the last second, he reminds you that the last soda is yours, and you remember not to put it into the bulging bags.
“Night,” he says, as you wish him a good evening, and waves, carrying the bags out to the parking lot like it’s no big thing. And maybe it isn’t.
You stand there like a zombie, your brain suddenly empty. There are no thoughts about what just happened, or that you need to start counting out your drawer.
Just as your computer beeps at you to remind you that it’s time to go, the door hisses open. You automatically set the ten minute delay, and look up. It’s him again.
“Sorry,” he says, “where are the bandaids?”
“Pharmacy,” you say, pointing. “Back of the store near Aisle 14.” You sneak a drink of the soda he left you as Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds sing about a red right hand.
He comes back within moments with a huge box of bandaids, the biggest one you sell. 120 of them, various types and colors.
“Is everything okay?” you ask, as you ring it up, and he pays cash this time instead of with his card like before.
“The ghouls were fussing again, it's nothing. Maybe I should have gotten a fourth bag of Funyuns.” He sounds so tired this time that you lean into the checkout aisle next to yours and grab one of the big bags there, and plop it down on the belt. The look on his face makes you lean over for a second bag.
“Grazie,” he says, like before. “Thank you. I am so sorry.” You bag everything up and he takes it, his gloved hand banging into yours, and he almost drops it, but you manage to get it hooked over his wrist. He thanks you again, and leaves.
Except he’s left his phone on the conveyor belt. Shit.
You put the register in suspend mode, grab the phone, and rush outside after him, hoping to God or Satan that he hasn’t already driven away, in a cab or a tour bus, or whatever the Hell he’s doing.
But they have gone nowhere, gathered in a loose cluster in front, the amorphous collection of what can only be ghouls, you’re a fan you just haven’t made it to a concert yet, their costumes sparkling in the street lamp nearest you. He’s still handing out bags, but the ghouls ignore him a moment later, converging on you as you approach hesitantly.
“Funyun Queen, Funyun Queen,” they chant, some of them munching on the crunchy treats as they approach, circling you like glittering vultures. Two of the ghouls are plastered with bandaids, and several more have some on their fingers.
“Excuse me,” you say, “Perpetua? V? You forgot your phone.” The ghouls converge closer as you hold the phone up over them. Or most of them. One of them is much taller than you.
“Oh shit,” he says. “It’s tough when you’re wrangling these guys. Guys? Please move? I need to get my phone.” The ghouls ignore him however, now touching you with sticky and dusty fingers, patting the shoulders of your uniform, your back, your arms. It’s fine. Y ou’ll shower later. Maybe.
He edges closer, trying to dodge the roving circle, and you try to pass him his phone, reaching past them.
However, their movement makes it impossible. The tallest ghoul takes the phone, and it gets passed from ghoul to ghoul, Papa following it frantically with mismatched eyes, and you can see his lips moving, probably in some prayer that it doesn’t end up in the gutter or bouncing off the very high curb.
The smallest, a ghoulette, passes the phone to him with a little bow. He heaves a sigh of relief.
Three of the ghouls immediately start begging him to get your phone number, and you are of course instantly flustered.
“You don’t have to,” he says, over the clamor, “in ten minutes they’ll have forgotten.” But the begging spreads like wildfire, and you end up with two ghouls holding your hands, dragging you over to him. “They’re not going to be able to give you Funyuns every time you want them,” he says, but the ghouls will not be dissuaded.
You’re amused, however, and so you give him your number. Meanwhile, you are unaware of several of the ghouls vanishing until they reappear, with more bags of Funyuns.
“Oh no,” Papa says, pocketing his phone at top speed so that he can focus on this new problem. “You can’t just steal from their store, Phantom.”
But this ghoul just shrugs and stuffs a handful of the onion crunchies into his mouth. You burst out laughing.
“We pay for things,” poor beleaguered Perpetua says, over the crunching. “We don’t just take them and then eat them.”
Phantom stares at you, at the bag in his hand, and then back at you, and then shrugs again. He reaches into his pocket (what pocket?) and pulls out a handful of crumpled bills, shoving them at you until you take them.
You stuff it into your own pocket. “See? No problem,” you say to Papa.
“Well, grazie,” he says, “Thanks for tolerating their nonsense. We should go and let you get closing. I am so sorry, again, for all of that. They’re a handful.”
“I see that,” You say with a smile. “It’s fine. Have a good night, or try to anyway. Be good you guys,” you say, as a joke. It’s not like the ghouls will take that to heart or anything.
You wave. They leave, finally, getting into the tour bus at the back of the lot. You wait until it pulls out of the lot before you go back inside to close up.
Turning off most of the lights, you lock the front door with the keys, and ring out a couple of bags of Funyuns, and take the money Phantom had given you out of your pocket to pay for it.
Except he’d given you a lot of money. Too much money for a couple of bags of chips. Frowning, you put the rest away, and close out your register. You head back to the office to count out. Most transactions these days are card, so there probably won’t be much.
You’ve only just shut the office door behind you when your phone buzzes. You ignore it for now, setting the cash tray down, getting your closeout form and a cash bag you can drop so they can take it to the bank in the morning.
By the time you get seated with everything, your phone has gone off a half dozen times at least.
You frown and pick it up, expecting its one of your friends asking why you’re so late getting off work. Except it’s not.
There are eight or so texts from the same number. Some of them are very invasive questions, the rest are song lyrics.
Oh you realize. It must be them. The ghouls must have stolen V’s phone. That’s all right. You just reply with hi and start counting.
It’s a very good thing you’re very good at counting, because the phone starts going off like crazy, buzzing so much you toss it onto the rug and go back to counting.
You want to look, but you don’t dare, you’re sure it’s going to be distracting. It takes some work because even where it is you can still hear the buzzing, just not as loudly.
Finally, you finish tallying all the bills, the coins, and writing it down, and then putting them into the bag. You open the drop slot on the top of the safe and drop the bag with the cash and sheet in it inside, and then sit back with a sigh. It’s almost 12:45. You pick up your phone.
The near constant buzzing has finally stopped, and you realize why, when you open it to see “please, please just stop, I am so sorry, please ignore everything that was sent in the last….ignore everything.”
Well you just can’t do that, not when it’s right there. First, you change the contact name to Papa V Perpetua, because it’s funny to have. No one would believe it anyway, so it’s not like it would matter.
And then you scroll. And scroll. And you’re laughing so hard by the time you come to his apology at the end, you are very glad that you did not listen, even if you feel slightly bad about it.
Highlights include more song lyrics (some of which are lurid), more invasive questions, photos of random things on the tour bus, most of which are out of focus, though still somewhat recognizeable, a perfectly framed shot of a combat boot that someone is wearing, a blurry photo of part of a ghoul’s face, another blurry photo of a hand, a long, long line of shark emojis (each one posted singly), someone capslocking EVER HAD SEX ON A TOUR BUS followed by another string of shark emojis, and then just a clusteruck of emojis, before the apology.
You’re pretty sure this has shaped up to be the best closing shift you’ve ever worked. You head out, shutting off the light in the office, and making sure the last lights in the store are out.
You lock up and cross the parking lot to your car, the wind picking up a little and sounding like the clatter of feet, but nothing’s there, it’s just leaves. You’re almost sad for a moment.
And then, as you get into the car, you get one last text, and you know that Papa doesn’t have his phone back anymore.
Thanks for the Funyuns.