The Art Of Hating You

1 | Wreaking Havoc

I perfected the art of hating everything.

This icky rooster costume.

Mr. Kim's idiotic bathroom break restrictions.

My useless shoulder.

Despite my underboob sweat, full bladder, and aching muscles, I picked the "King Kim's Chicken Emporium" sign up from the ground and forced my lips into a customer service smile. It was out of habit more than anything— nobody looked close enough to care.

The intersection was busy enough, but there weren't many people out and about on a Tuesday afternoon to entice with fried chicken. The old couple shuffling across the street were absorbed in each other, and the group of tweens loitering by the Starbucks next door were absorbed in themselves.

At least nobody threw a half-finished bacon strawberry milkshake on me today. Not that it'd ever happened before.

Mini pity party over, I squared my feather-clad shoulders and sold my dignity for minimum wage. "Get a King Kim's Chicken Combo for only $4.99! It's royally delicious!"

I flipped the sign. It spun twice in the air and came back down, but slipped through my butter fingers.

The chipped plywood board clattered against the concrete sidewalk. Again.

Ugh! My right shoulder twinged, so I took a second to massage the good-for-nothing muscles. Swimmer's shoulder, the docs called it. Pfft. Stupid name for a stupid injury. How much sense did that make? I clearly didn't have a swimmer's shoulder, 'cause this bum shoulder would never take me into the Olympics.

I bent down to retrieve the sign. Pale, grubby hands yanked it away, sending me backwards on my ass.

Body frozen, I tried to process what just happened. What the heck?

One of the tweens, a little Jake Paul wannabe, shoved his Go-Pro in my face and taunted me with my sign. My own sign! He bolted down the street with his minions on his heels.

A sudden coldness hit my core. They had to be joking.

Scrambling to my feet, I ground my teeth.

"Come back here you— you punks! You little twerps!" I yelled after them. Wow, Shay, your best insults rivalled the crotchety guys from Home Alone.

He turned and stuck out his tongue, a sneer marring his features. I narrowed my eyes. Surprising that the demon spawn didn't have a forked tongue.

I waddled after them, the rooster-knight-costume not ideal for a high-speed chase. If only it came with a sword— I'd skewer them like a shishkabob. Given I could catch up with them.

Pausing, I sucked in air and wiped the sweat out of my eyes. When I straightened, the street was empty.

My shoulders slumped. Great, I lost them. Did they go left or right?

I chose right and speed-walked another couple blocks.

Head pounding, I gave up, breath shallow yet audible. No piece of plywood was worth this. I rubbed my shoulder. Guess right was wrong, or they outran me.

I plopped my butt down in front of Shoppers Drug Mart, right on the sun-warmed concrete with dried gum and unidentifiable stains.

Screw you, "No Loitering" sign. This pitiful chicken deserved to loiter a little. I ripped off my plastic helmet, freeing my dark, sweat-soaked hair.

Who in their right mind made their branding an armour-wearing chicken? Mr. Kim, that's who. Mr. Kim, my evil boss who'd fire me as soon as I returned sans sign.