dirtyhands

minimum wage labour

so anyways. read the prev first chapter what the hell was i doing

grew a brain and learnt how to write...still kinda lazy cuz im rushing second chap

trust 100%

no editing we die like poco in basically every mode 

*

Of course they never talk about it.

Edgar vaguely remembers being woken in the middle of the night, all hazy and foggy. A kiss on his forehead, the door creaking open. Went straight back to sleep. 

In the morning his hands stretch out, searching warmth - but find the cold, clammy sheets instead, pulled out of place.

The jacket thrown over his chair is gone.

Of course they never talk about it.

Teeth dig into his bottom lip. Would it be that hard?

But alas, minimum wage labour comes first. Minimum wage labour. Oh my God. I have a job.

The thought of Griff chastising him yet again has him up and out of bed in mere seconds.

And there are shirts in the closet that are at least twice his size. He tries not to look at them but he knows, he knows they're there - they've been there for a long, long time.

Pants - oh my God, is he out of pants?

A trip to the laundry basket! It's overflowing, random clothes fallen over and scattered on the floor. He should've done it yesterday - but oh, guess who decided to come over?

Somehow he manages to snuff out a scraggly pair of jeans, creased and scrunched all over, leaving behind clothes spilt and spread all over the floor. It'll do.

Just gotta...love adulting. Yay. Freedom.

Plow through the mess of gaming consoles and wires on the bed in a mad search for his phone - only to find that someone's plugged it on the table. Shove the stray cigarettes into his pocket.

There's a lighter lying there - one with a grubby popcorn sticker. His hands hesitate - but in the end he just shoves it in anyways. There's no saying when the guy will turn up. A week? A month? Two months? No idea.

There! Done in five minutes. No breakfast. No water - his throat is parched and itchy. But he's not risking a phone call from Griff. Nope. Never.

*

at the store 

Torn off fingernails scattered on the greasy, scratched counter. He'd been sitting there the whole day, underneath the mouldy air conditioner with a runny nose, listening as the clunky machine belched out gusts of air intermixed with spores. Shelves creaked underneath the weight of Spike plushies, Starr Park mugs and Bo hats, all jammed together. He was supposed to clean out the shelves today, all twelve of them. He didn't.

What? If Griff is going to pay him minimum wage then he's going to do minimum work. The businessman was the one accepted his application form on the spot anyways, the first day he set foot in this wretched store, his fake marble teeth bared in an unnerving smile. What was there to smile about?

Eighteen. No prior job experience (unless you count that one time he helped El Primo out as a fellow bouncer at Barley's Bar for a celebration, that is) Good at punching.

He'd expected security. Ended up being a cashier.

Well, now he knows why the man was so happy. Wouldn't you be too? The day he signed his name on that stupid, taped together, vaguely-worded contract was the day he'd signed his life away to corporate labour. Under a god damn slot machine lookalike.

Ha-ha. Must've been funny, right? In fact, Griff's nickname for him is Stupid Kid. Full nickname: Stupid Kid Who Signed Away Five Years of His Life Like A Total Freaking Dumbass. Often abbreviated to Dumbass. Oh, yes. Griff is very smart. Griff is extremely smart. You stupid, naive boy. You'll never survive the worlds of commerce.

Well, guess what, Griff? You got scammed.

Was he expecting an accountant, legal representative, cleaner, cooker or guarantor all wrapped in one? Unfortunately, Edgar is not that. Edgar is a naive, stupid cashier. Doesn't do anything but sit at the counter. Doesn't plan on doing anything but sitting at the counter.

Most horrible employee alive.

Well, until Griff himself burst in. Uh-oh.

They stare at each other - Edgar frozen, fingers playing with the cashier keys; Griff, mortified.

For a moment there is silence.

And the next there is screaming.

'What do you THINK I pay you for? To sit there all day?'

The businessman's gaze darts all about - from the dusty shelves to the unwiped counter - and the loudening whirring of machinery has Edgar scrambling out of his seat, in search of a broom.

The storeroom is small and cluttered. About five things fall the moment he swings open the doors.

'Why is NOTHING done? You've been here for THREE hours! This is coming out of your PAYCHECK, boy!'

Duster, duster - where the hell is the duster?

He settles for a duster broken in half and a mangy broom.

"Sorry, boss." he mutters, dusting the closest shelf he can find, while his scarf busies itself with sweeping at top speed. Dust clouds the air.

Griff shrieks about how dirty it is, frantically fanning the air. Hmph. You're a robot.

No, he'll never do this again. Yes, he understands this is coming out of his wages. Yes, he knows he can be easily replaced. Blah blah blah.

'And if you pull this AGAIN, boy...'

With one gloved hand Griff shoves his hand into the Tips jar, pulling out the single scrunkled dollar, shoving it in Edgar's face. But all he can notice are the patches sewed onto the machine's gloves. They're not even a matching color - slightly off-white.

'I'll be taking THIS! Get it?'

'Yes, boss.'

'I HOPE you do!'

Adjusting his blazer the businessman huffs, then checks his phony watch. Says something about how he's lucky that he has an appointment - or else he'd chew the absolute crap out of him. Right before he walks out the door, he faces Edgar, and draws an invisible line across his throat.

In response Edgar musters the sweetest smile he can - which isn't sweet at all. Stretched lips and exposed teeth. 

Griff, you are such a cool and amazing boss. Thanks for keeping me employed. I love working minimum wage.

The door is slammed in his face. No brownie points, huh?

Well, that was fast.

So is the rest of the work. Endless sweeping. Cigarette break - he deserves one, after having to deal with Griff. Dusting the shelves and rearranging the Bo hats, the mugs and the plushies. What's the point, though? No one's rushing to buy.

Ha. Hilarious, isn't it? You're not fooling anyone, Griff. And neither is Edgar - squished by a minimum wage job, doomed to sweeping and dusting for the rest of his life. Eighteen plus five, twenty-three - freedom. 

The last customer...two months ago.

Oh.

He'd met him two months ago, in this crappy store.

i got five hemorrhages writing this & it needs editing 

2nd chap probs better cuz fang is ezier to write 

edgar and fang make maining poco so hard 

ok bye