Futile Trials

(47) Crazy Talk

You're beyond your wits. 

Scared, maybe? Excited, possibly...

Hysterical, by whatever means. 

After a moment of feverishly watching the man with the knife, the cashier makes an aggravated sound, asking of your payment for the cigarettes. 

You tear your gaze away from the perp and draw your wallet, pulling out all but one bill necessary to pay. You have the money. But you don't let the cashier see that, or the man.

One quarter, two; two dimes and five pennies. 

"Damn..." You muse quietly, but careful to make sure the man hears you. "I'm, like, twenty-four cents short." 

The cashier covers the pack of cigarettes protectively. 

"No money, no cigarettes," they hiss, thinking you the type to beg to be let off cheap. 

You look at them a moment, playing into that idea. You make yourself look like the hopeless kid that would beg to be let off cheap, and with that statement, your cancer inciting dreams were crushed. 

"Um..." You turn to locate the man, standing surprisingly close behind. He's examining a packet of chips, reading the ingredients. Or so it appears... "Excuse me?"

He turns, all too attentatively.

"Sorry to bother you.." You're not sorry at all. This is all just going according to plan. "You wouldn't happen to have a quarter, would you?"

He steps closer. He has a natural scent, no deoderant or aftershave.... It's a smell of smoke, as from fire, not cigarettes. And a hint of some sweet spice like mint, but it's so vague and intermittent... It may as well not be there. 

"A quarter?" A fringe of disapproval taints his tone and expressions. Everything is silent for a moment: the cashier waiting on you, and you on the man.  "Yeah, I have a quarter."

He pulls a gun, not the knife, but a gun, and pushes you aside, placing it right between the cashier's eyes. "Open the register."

Now would be a good time to run, you think, but when you try, you find you're attached to the scene. 

He's grabbed your arm and when you pull, when you struggle, he yanks you back even closer, his grip even tighter. 

You appear to be the hostage now.

The cashier, with shaky hands, types up the register code and pops open the tray, backing away with a forcefully calm stare and their hands up. 

Unable to spare the hand holding onto you, the man uses the hand which controls the trigger, pulling out a single quarter from the register. 

"Here, have a quarter."

Do you...

Demand explanation?
Skip to "Hold One Moment"

Faint?
Skip to "Weak in the Knees"

Take the quarter?
Skip to "The Quarter"