a series of sbi oneshots

I'm not paid enough for This

Its one AM. Its one AM and Tommy is only just now reaching the middle of his shift. Its one AM and there is a guy in full ren faire cosplay staring at the hot dog spinner like its a magic orb.

Tommy is not paid enough for this.

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Its one AM. Its one AM and Tommy is only just now reaching the middle of his shift. Its one AM and there is a guy in full ren faire cosplay staring at the hot dog spinner like its a magic orb.

Tommy is not paid enough for this.

“Fascinating,” the guy murmurs, ostensibly to himself but he’s so goddamn big and the store is so quiet that it carries over to Tommy. “And thus are the sausages rendered to the heat on all sides, without even the need to turn the spit. Ingenious.”

At least someone is having a good time around here.

He’s got to be at least eight feet tall or something, dressed in armor, a blood red cape around his shoulders, a fucking crown on his head and a sword that Tommy kind of vaguely hopes is fake on his hip. His hair is pink. Like bright pink.  He has been here for the past hour. Fascinated by literally everything.

He sat there with the cooler door open for a solid thirty minutes, murmuring in wonder about the ‘sourcless winter, imprisoned in a crystalline case.’ Tommy probably should have told him to either grab a drink or close the damn door but its not like he’s paying the bills.

The bells over the door jingle. Tommy glances over. Its a night for tall bastards apparently. This one is whip thin, deep bags under his eyes, a dark coat wrapped around his shoulders, a maroon beanie crammed down on his head, brown curls flaring out from under it. He taps his fingers together nervously, eyes darting to the bells as if he was hoping to sneak in.

Tommy really hopes he isn’t here to rob the place, that would be a pain.

His eyes flick to Tommy, but he doesn’t pull a gun from the coat. That’s nice of him.

He looks deeper into the rest of the store and freezes. His head jerks back a bit. He looks at Tommy, back to King of the Hotdogs, back to Tommy. He points to the King and makes a confused face, as if he thinks Tommy isn’t seeing this. As if he thinks Tommy hasn’t been seeing this for half his shift.

Tommy blinks at him slowly and raises an eyebrow. He’s coming in here dressed like a shitty serial killer reject and he wants to throw stones at King Hotdog?

Trench Coat frowns at him and ducks into the aisles.

Tommy settles in to zone out for a couple more hours.

“Pardon,” a deep--now familiar--voice rumbles. Tommy blinks back to the mortal world and raises an eyebrow. King Hotdog has got at least ten fucking dogs in a bag, no buns, no ketchup, no napkins, just some hotdogs falling halfway out of the paper bag. Tommy doesn’t even know where he got a paper bag.

“Yeah?” 

King Hotdog clears his throat and rests a hand on his sword. Oh shit is he robbing the place? Tommy might forgive him for it honestly. At least he’s being unique about it. Every other asshole just comes in here with a hoodie and a gun.

“Pardon,” his majesty says again, “I am come to settle my debts.”

Debts?

“If you mean the hotdogs then I can ring you up. If you mean other shit you’ll have to wait for the manager.” Tommy isn’t an idiot, he knows this place is a fucking front. No way it would stay open otherwise. He’s not involved in the mafia and drugs shit.