Chapter Text
It was just past midnight at the 7/11 on Main Street, that eerie, in-between hour when the hum of the drink coolers sounded like a living thing. The lone clerk behind the counter scrolled through his phone, bored out of his mind, unaware that tonight would be anything but ordinary.
The door slid open with a synthetic chime. A man stepped in, a tall, shaggy-haired, wearing a ragged trench coat and dark sunglasses even though it was the middle of the night. His beard looked like it had survived a hundred winters, and his boots left faint muddy prints on the clean tile floor. He called himself the Original.
A few minutes later, the door chimed again. Another man entered, equally shaggy, equally strange, but his coat was a little too shiny, his beard a little too neat, his stance a little too practiced. He was Bootleg.
For a moment, both wandered the aisles separately. The Original inspecting the hot dog rollers with a suspicious eye, Bootleg studying the energy drink fridge like a scientist analyzing alien technology. But then, they spotted each other. Their eyes locked. The fluorescent lights flickered as if even the store itself could sense the tension brewing.
The air grew thick with unease. The humming coolers seemed to hold their breath.
Original: “I am the original.”
Bootleg: “I am bootleg.”
Original: “You’re not supposed to exist! I am the one and only original.”
Bootleg: “I am bootleg. I am just as good as the original!”
Original: “Fuck you! There can only be one original! I will destroy you!”
Bootleg: “Ok then. Let’s settle this, bitch!”
Without another word, both mysterious strangers reached for their zippers. The clerk blinked, muttering, “Oh hell no, not again.”
From their trousers erupted blinding beams of pure light, twin lightsaber swords, humming and crackling with divine fury. One glowed an ancient golden hue; the other blazed with a raw, chaotic blue. The shaggy men raised their glowing blades, each holding it like a sacred relic from forgotten gods.
Then — chaos.
A war of light and fury erupted between the shelves of beef jerky and instant ramen. Sparks flew as blades clashed, cutting through candy displays and knocking over rows of Slurpee cups. Chips exploded like confetti, soda sprayed from shattered bottles, and the Slurpee machine hissed like a wounded beast.
The Original lunged, slicing through a rotating hot dog roller. Bootleg countered, deflecting the swing with a sweeping arc that sent nacho cheese flying across the walls. They dueled between aisles, their movements wild and primal, two reflections of the same soul locked in eternal combat.
“YAAAAH!” screamed the Original as he swung his dick saber across the coffee machine, sending steaming liquid into the air. Bootleg spun backward, kicking over a rack of chewing gum. The lights flickered, the floor shook, and for a moment it looked like the entire 7/11 might explode from pure ridiculous energy.
Then came the voice.
“HEY! GET THE HELL OUTTA MY STORE!”
The clerk, red-faced and furious, leapt over the counter wielding a dented baseball bat. He charged at the two shaggy warriors with the fury of a man who’d had enough of unpaid overtime and exploding nacho dispensers.
Both Original and Bootleg turned, startled, as the bat swung through the air, not hitting them, but close enough to make them yelp. In a rare moment of mutual agreement, the two combatants bolted for the door, crashing through it in a spray of glass shards and neon light.
They disappeared into the night, their glowing dick sabers fading into the fog.
The clerk stood in the wrecked store, breathing heavily. Chips crunched beneath his shoes. The coffee machine was smoking. The Slurpee machine was dead.
He sighed, rubbed his temples, and muttered, “Not again…”
To be continued…