Thou Shall Not Kill - Lost Boys

Chapter Eleven: Wonderful Killers

The customer scowled so dramatically that Azrael feared they might laugh if they stopped concentrating on remaining completely serious.

"I'm very sorry, but I'm the seniormost staff member here, right now. If you come in tomorrow-"

"I want to speak with the manager now!"

"I am the manager."

"Well, who's in charge of the shop right now?"

Azrael tried to find the right words. "Me. I am in charge. I am the manager."

Having exhausted their supply of petty complaints, the customer slammed fifty dollars on the counter and hauled their bags from the shop. Azrael placed the cash in the register, withdrew a twenty, and placed it in the tip jar, pleased with the customer's lack of care when choosing which note they paid with.

"Not too bad," they muttered.

"Not too bad at all."

Azrael lifted their head, locking eyes with Dwayne. "Why?"

Dwayne lifted an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

Azrael looked at the three customers standing behind him in line. "Why are you here?"

"You work here, don't you?" he replied in an irritatingly matter-of-fact way.

Azrael smirked as they totalled the cost of the long-life foods that Dwayne had placed on the counter. "Actually, don't tell anyone, but I broke in and stole a uniform. I just really wanted to argue with customers about whether my superior can be here when she's currently in hospital."

Dwayne stared with heavy eyes as Azrael accepted the money and waved him on his way.

He picked up the rustling plastic bag of pasta, milk and canned vegetables, and dropped it behind the counter. "For your family and Star."

As he exited, he pointed to the clock, which was counting the last fifteen minutes of Azrael's shift. "See you after you're done here. At the merry-go-round."

Azrael went about the place, pretending to listen to their young coworker complaining about how her dad made her work during the holidays, eventually ridding themself of her when they had shut down the store. They leant on the back door as they sealed it shut, placing the keyring in their backpack with their own keys, and the bag of essentials that Dwayne had gifted them.

They took a second to seriously question whether they had the energy to deal with the boys before setting off down the boardwalk. They passed several crumpled posters advertising bands and acts as the drone of a saxophone danced with the hum of the crowd. On this sticky Friday night, the revellers came from a great variety of social groups. School and college students, tourists, parents fed up with responsibility, pot smokers, pot dealers, music fans, washed up professionals, surfers, and the occasional local filled the boardwalk with chatter.

The true variety of Santa Carla had always been a redeeming feature for Azrael. If they went for a walk at any time of the day or night, chances were, they could strike up conversations with people from all different classes, countries and career paths. Even closed-off locals like Azrael would still give directions and answer questions without a second thought. The population was always fluctuating and changing and moving. People came and went without rhyme or reason.

Azrael broke from the crowd, drawn to the merry-go-round in a way not too dissimilar to the moths who flitted anxiously around the shining machine. The boys were easy to spot, their dark outfits breaking the blinding brilliance that shone at their backs.

Marko, who had been perching his weight on one hip, broke into an energetic stride, wrapping his arm quickly around Azrael's waist. He gazed up at them with bright eyes, his golden locks shining against the dark backdrop of a new leather jacket. The pockets of his jeans were decorated with a few small patches pulled from his old jacket; a subtle reminder of how close he had come to meeting another untimely end.