Things Are Amiss: a lampooning of anime tropes

DEAD

"Where the hell is the manager?!" a robber wearing a pair of panties over his face kicks one of the customers' chairs and it tips over, sending the frightened young girl down with it.

"Who wants to know?!" That slackjawed jackass Garret strolls straight out from the kitchen and into the lobby, ripping his apron straight off with ease. Veins are popping out across his face, and for a moment it sends visible terror into the unknown attacker.

He points his shotgun at Gerret's chest but does so too slowly, and a fist connects with his throat, knocking the wind out of his lungs and causing the gun to fall from his grip.

He tries to reach for it as Garret begins to choke him out, and with every passing second he gets closer, everyone else inside seemingly frozen in fear, myself included... until now.

It's as if my body begins to move on its own.

Why would you stand up to a robbery when nothing's on the line?! Just give him the damn money!

The sound of a booming gunshot interrupts my thoughts, and when I look up, a wide splash of blood branching out from Garrett's missing head along the floor, lobby pillar, and most of a customer's right side.

"Now where's the money?!"

The one cashier out front shrieks before running to the kitchen, stopped short by a load of ammunition which drives itself into her back, sending her spasming corpse to the greasy tile floor.

His right foot stomps on her neck as he walks in to confront the rest of us, motioning me to go the register before sliding over and across that countertop, slinging a backpack from behind him at the same time.

"I-I'm coming, just don't shoot..."

I slowly approach, carefully moving forward with both hands up.

"I, um, don't have the key to this one but-"

The butt end of his shotgun slams it open before he jumps back with the shotgun aimed at my chest.

"No more excuses, just load the bag."

I grab as much money as I can, stuffing it violently into the backpack as more sweat pours down my face, until the back of my hand bumps against something cold, hard and metallic.

I put the last of the money in before gripping the handle of the gun and handing the backpack to him, with full intention of killing him as soon as he puts his guard down and leaves.

And this plan works beautifully, except for one problem; the gun I am wielding is airsoft.

I pull the trigger, and a single pellet bounces off of the back of his head, leaving behind a purple bruise, pissing him off enough to kill just once more before fleeing the scene.

Me.