#I would be okay having a job that requires occasional patron assistance

[shiveringsoldier]

One annoying thing about my job search is that I am most qualified for library patron service-related jobs because that is where I have the most job experience, but those are also the types of jobs that I least want to have. Also, the jobs that I most want are the jobs where I have the least experience

[transientutopia]

apostasy - first fragment

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOONIE! I’ve written notes on the AO3 upload of this, so I won’t repeat them here, but happy birthday and I hope you have the best day!!!! ♥

Read on AO3 here (recommended)

The lives of those who work in the police force aren't particularly stimulating.

Regular patrols. Missing person cases without any deeper motives. The occasional murder.

Where other cities are alive and bustling at night, this city is dead.

It had always been--

--until the day they arrived.

Kuroko Tetsuya: a twenty-four year old with light, celeste-hued locks and dark cobalt-eyes, working as one of the top detectives in the police force. He is twenty-one when he finally completes his courses at the Metropolitan Police Academy in Tokyo. He is twenty-two and a half when he becomes world-renowned as the "phantom detective".

It is one year later when he gets sent to a different location in Japan, a city long abandoned and inhabited by those who claw their way through blood and grime, doing everything they can if only with the hopes of escaping someday. It is a sea of illicit drugs, crime and black lies that he swims through.

He is not looking to save these people, as much as he had argued with his superiors. This place is far too corrupted and his hands are far too clean, they had drilled into his head before giving him the job. You're the only one who can do it, they had said. The Phantom is a man unknown by both name and appearance.

Scuffed, leather soles tracking up dirt, Tetsuya tilts his rusty hat up to get a better view of the city before him.

All he sees is blight.

There are many rumours -- too many -- that surround this city. A disease that zombifies those contaminated has been spread to all its citizens. A nuclear bomb fell upon this area during the world war, and it has been forgotten since. People who visit are cornered and drawn into the endless network of human trafficking.

There are many rumours that surround this city.

But rumours make leads, and leads hold cause for investigation.

Tetsuya is twenty-two when he first hears of them. Amidst making a name for himself as he flawlessly concludes yet another case, his peers invite him out for drinks at the nearby bar.

He agrees.

He goes with Aomine Daiki, a high-ranked police officer, and Kagami Taiga, an intimidating yet friendly fireman. Daiki is tanned, with hair and eyes both an exotic, midnight-blue. He is often accused of being a foreigner. Taiga, on the other hand, has two-toned crimson locks -- bright towards his crown, blacker at the tips -- and eyes of a similar, dark shade. He is never accused of being a foreigner, despite being practically half-American, much to Daiki’s chagrin. They are both Tetsuya’s best friends. They had met in university and clicked straight away, much to the surprise of many others. They frequent the bar owned by Taiga's brother figure, Himuro Tatsuya, and are often treated drinks as a "thanks" for always helping out.

There are many fights in the bar, after all.

Nobody ever mentions Tatsuya's standing in the underworld. The less knowledge they have when they assist him, the better.

He is a mysterious man with eyes as black as his hair -- albeit, nobody has ever seen his left eye. It is permanently obscured by his tresses. The beauty mark beneath his right eye is also a common topic for conversation.

Tatsuya's best worker is a man named Nijimura Shuuzou, who is a plain, yet attractive man with dark hair and eyes -- though, rather than being the best at bartending, he's really only there to terrorise punks and thugs in the vicinity who think they can extort his boss whilst he waits on tables. He also makes the occasional cocktail.

(Tatsuya's high salary and fondness for Shuuzou also definitely do not stem from the fact that they are, none-too-furtively, hooking up. They try to hide it, but Shuuzou rushing to work with hickeys littered across his collarbone in a shirt that Tatsuya was clearly wearing the week before does not make for much of a secret, unfortunately -- much to their coworkers' and friends' amusement.)

Alongside Shuuzou work another odd pair -- Midorima Shintarou, who is as good at smiling as he is socialising -- he's atrocious at both, by the way -- and Takao Kazunari, the only person who can deal with him for extended periods of time. Kazunari also has onyx-coloured hair and eyes -- but Shintarou, for some reason, has natural forest-green hair and eyes of a near identical hue.

(Tetsuya supposes he cannot point out that fact without sounding hypocritical.)

They are, also, going out with each other. Tetsuya is quite sure that it extends beyond physical relations -- if the blush on Shintarou's face is any telling factor, that is, from what he can see at the moment.

Exhaling, Tetsuya sips on his cocktail. He is the sole person who actually drinks the concoction labelled "EXTREMELY MYSTERIOUS SWEET JUICE!!!! ���", to everyone's horror, on a regular basis. It is a running bet on how long it'll take for him to contract diabetes.

"What's up, Kuroko? Why the long face?"

"That's his regular face," Daiki points out, slinging an arm around the aforementioned detective. Taiga rolls his eyes.

"He was sighing!"

"I was breathing," Tetsuya corrects, swirling his glass around absentmindedly. He likes watching the bright colours mix.

"Who breathes that loudly?"

"I was exhaling."

"Well I, for one, am glad that Kurokocchi's breathing!" Kise Ryouta calls out as he takes a seat next to Tetsuya by the bar, winning smile plastered onto his chiseled features. He works as a full-time model -- it isn't a surprise, with his silky, bright-golden tresses and piercing, aureolin eyes.

"Shut up, Kise, nobody asked."

"So rude, Aominecchi!"

Ryouta whines, turning his gaze on Daiki like a hopeful puppy. When he doesn't react, the blonde wilts sadly.

"It's okay, Kise-kun," Tetsuya says softly, "Aomine-kun is just grouchy; he got yelled at by the higher-ups today."

"Dammit, Tetsu--"

"Also," he adds as an afterthought, eyes sparkling with mischief, "you aren't Kagami-kun, so your teary-eyed attack won't work on him."

Daiki promptly chokes on his beer.

"W-wait, what-- how did you--" Taiga splutters.

"Everyone already knows you’re together."

"Hah?!"

"More importantly, how long have you been going out for?" Kazunari pipes up eagerly. Taiga is confused, but answers regardless.

"Uh... We started a little while before I went to America for the incident with my old man. Remember that?"

"Ah, rather than remembering, it was more like we weren't allowed to forget," Ryouta grins, elbows on the counter. "Aominecchi was complaining for weeks right after you left, after all."

"S-shut up!"

He smirks cheekily, but his mirth fades once Tetsuya turns in his direction. Puffing up his cheeks a little, the model yields.

Shuuzou sighs, muttering a small "fuck".

"This is why you don't add a detective into the mix," Shintarou shakes his head, pushing his glasses up haughtily. Kazunari nudges him with too much force, making him spill some alcohol onto the floor.

"You still went with it though, Shin-chan!" he cackles.

"Shut up, Takao."

"The hell are you guys going on about?" Daiki grumbles, downing another glass. Taiga's jaw drops as every member of the group -- other than himself, Daiki and Tetsuya -- subsequently bring out two thousand-yen bills from their wallets. They pile up in front of Tetsuya, who has the decency to keep his face expressionless in lieu of looking smug.

"You -- you bet on us?!"

"Shitty bastards," Daiki says without bite.

"Damn, can't believe Tatsuya lost," Shuuzou voices, disgruntled, "I thought this time he'd be able to win."

"I'm no match for him, Shuu," Tatsuya chuckles, "despite watching the lovebirds every odd day, I still lost. How did you figure out the date, Kuroko?"

"I figured Aomine-kun would have to get his hands on Kagami-kun before he left for America," Tetsuya answers without remorse, "because Aomine-kun was starved for action for too long."

"Oi-- Tetsu!"

"K-Kuroko!" Taiga quite literally squeaks, mortified. Tetsuya tilts his head cutely, blinking his large, deep-azure eyes. It is an instant kill for Ryouta, who seems close to headdesking and drowning in his own nosebleed -- but alas, Tetsuya's two colleagues are much too accustomed to his sly ruses. He shrugs, and continues to tease them without mercy.

After the bar is cleared out and they are the only remaining patrons, Tetsuya speaks. The door is locked, the "CLOSED FOR BUSINESS" sign swaying softly in the wind.

"I heard my superiors at work today discuss a particular place in Japan," he begins, gaze resting on Tatsuya, whose lips quirk up subtly. The bar owner continues wiping down the counter without any further notion to signify that he is following the conversation.

"As the rumours there go, there are two criminals that have been set loose in separate parts of town. Both have been deemed serial killers, and nobody knows where they came from."

Lacing his fingers together, Tetsuya leans forward a little. His eyes narrow imperceptibly at Tatsuya's form.

It is their usual game.

"They say one is like the mist, and the other a demon."

"The ashen-haired invisible man -- some say he isn't real," Tatsuya hums, wrenching out the cloth between his hands, "but he definitely exists. Like the mist, he moves, disappearing without any evidence. Gone. His victims vanish with his own person."

"But there is always a trace. Run your hands through a cloud of mist, and you'll know it was there. You'll feel it on your fingertips."

"Yes," Tatsuya agrees, "but akin to every other being, you require an incentive."

Tetsuya stares at him, eyes blank. The latter's smile widens.

"The mist is a spirit of vengeance," he murmurs softly, "if your anguish rings out loudly enough, he will come -- and he will aid you. But nothing comes without a price. For people who dip their hands into poison, what do you think happens?"

'Ah,' Tetsuya thought. Watching the comprehension flit through his friend's eyes, Tatsuya chuckles.

"What about the demon?"

"The red demon," he says. "The Reaper. The devil. Diablo... The death god."

He lists them off like they are synonymous to one another, but Tetsuya knows better. His eyes widen.

"...No."

"Yes," Tatsuya inclines his head a single time, "shall we chat a little while longer?"

"No, this is enough," Tetsuya answers lowly, "thank you very much, Himuro-kun."

"It's no problem," the bar owner replies cheerfully, "I'm always indebted to you. Now, Shuu, Midorima-kun, Takao-kun, shall we begin cleaning up?"

"Already on it," Shuuzou hollers, spraying antiseptic on the tables.

"Hell yeah! Let's go, Shin-chan!" Kazunari grins. Before leaving the bar, however, he pauses and leans over to whisper conspiratorially into Tetsuya's ear.

"Don't get yourself killed, alright, Tetsu-chan? We'd all be horribly lonely without you."

"I'll try my best," Tetsuya offers him a rare smile, "thank you, uhm... Kazunari-kun."

With that, Tetsuya leaves; Taiga, Ryouta and Daiki in tow. Shuuzou stands by the unlocked door as they go, and they listen to the door's closing jingle before resuming their post-work clean-up.

"Ah~ Tetsu-chan is so cute. He's still embarrassed to use my first name," Kazunari says dreamily, sighing like a lovesick, high school girl. Shintarou tells him so, and Kazunari simply roars with laughter in response.

"Ahahaha! Shin-chan, don't worry, don't worry! You know you're the only one for me~"

"Shut up, Takao."

Walking outside, Daiki abruptly elbows Taiga in the ribs, earning a grunt from said male. Taiga shoots him a withering look.

"What?" he asks gruffly.

"This is where we split," Daiki points out.

"Eh, isn't this too early? Well, whatever."

"See you, Tetsu, Kise," Daiki waves lazily, seizing Taiga by the hand. Turning a bright red, the redhead stutters out a short farewell to Ryouta and Tetsuya before allowing himself to be tugged away.

Once they're alone, Ryouta sighs. "I can't tell if Aominecchi did that on purpose, or..."

"Kise-kun."

"I know." he looks frustrated with himself. "You don't have to do this, Kurokocchi."

"I know," Tetsuya echoes, "but I want to."

"Why?"

"Because they're harming people."

"What if they're harming people who deserve it?" Ryouta argues, knowing it to be nothing but futile. Tetsuya shakes his head, a small smile tugging up his lips.

"Kise-kun, nobody deserves to be killed. It only makes for a vicious cycle."

"...You don't even know if you'll be put on the case," he refutes weakly. Tetsuya only stares up at him with determination blazing in his gaze, and Ryouta lets his shoulders drop.

"...Please, don't throw yourself into danger as recklessly as you always do. Akashicchi... Akashicchi isn't somebody who lets people get away with defying him."

"I know," Tetsuya affirms softly. Ryouta shakes his head, and for the briefest of moments, Tetsuya can see it again.

He can see a boy, just old enough to be fresh out of high school, with blonde locks covered in filth and soot.

He can see his eyes, narrowed, dull and golden with a lackluster shine, practically unrecognisable to what they are now.

He can almost smell the blood covering the boy's hands, blood that isn't his own, whose blood is it--

He can remember it vividly -- almost too much so.

There is a boy, painfully young, backed into an alleyway. With his brows drawn together and teeth gritted, he growls like a cornered animal. He is bruised and bloody. Tetsuya speaks softly to him, holding his palms up in a placating manner.

It takes a long, long time...

...But it is nothing less than "worth it" as tears well up in the boy's eyes when Tetsuya finally holds his hand out to him.

There isn't a single day Tetsuya regrets his choices for a second: and he never will, he thinks, as the boy sobs, throwing his gun down to launch himself into Tetsuya's arms.

For the first time, the boy sees the world in colour.

It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

The memories are much too fresh in their minds.

(He'll never be able to escape from the hands that curl around his wrists, from the nails that maul down his arms, his legs, his back. He'll never be able to escape all the lives he's stolen. But even so, he continues trying to mend what he's done. He continues trying to find a reason for himself, trying to live for something that isn't his father's bidding. Tetsuya gave him a chance, and he took it.)

Ryouta clenches his fists as he glowers down at the concrete.

"You don't," he says with so much emotion that Tetsuya can't do anything but flinch, "you don't, Kurokocchi. These are two assassins you're up against. I was different."

"You were," Tetsuya agrees quietly, "but I don't plan on trying to save them, either."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"Perhaps... But more people will be killed if I don't try."

"...What a Kurokocchi-esque answer," Ryouta laughs bitterly.

He looks up, finally, and Tetsuya feels a chill run down his spine.

Those eyes--

It's the same expression Tetsuya has seen on him countless times. There is nothing but ice and pure, pure malice in his gaze.

"I'll tell you everything I know about Akashicchi. But, if either of them lay a single hand on you... I will find them myself."

Ryouta's bloodlust is suffocating--

--and Tetsuya silently thinks to himself that, rather than being afraid of the two assassins...

...It is much more viable to be afraid of the man standing before him.

After all, he is the heir to the infamous King of the Underworld.

At twenty-three and a half, Tetsuya finally gets his hands on the very case that he has chased after for over a year. Scuffed, leather soles tracking up dirt, he tilts his rusty hat up to get a better view of the city before him through his dyed, black locks.

All he sees is blight--

--and blight can be purified.

But he isn't here to do that just yet. If he does not get a proper, tangible lead on either the Mist nor the Demon -- as everyone had begun calling them -- within a month, he will likely find himself mixed into some of the many, precarious situations that the citizens of this city are tangled in. Tetsuya knows this better than anyone.

So, he stays alert.

He blends in with his surroundings, slipping in through crowds, through abandoned buildings, through areas that reek of nothing but blood and sex. He turns a blind eye several times to illegal trades, and quietly exhales, repeating "soon" over and over in his head like a mantra.

Perhaps it is the only thing that helps to keep him from falling into the atmosphere of sheer depravity and impurity.

Perhaps it is the only thing that helps to keep him from noticing the eyes that follow his back wherever he goes.

When he turns around, senses heightened, all he sees is a blur.

And then, black.

His throat constricts, and all he can taste is black.

...

...Black.

"Nn..."

Blinking his eyes open blearily, Tetsuya sits up.

"..."

He jolts awake faster than he ever has throughout his entire twenty-three years of living, and jumps to his feet. He shoves his hands into his pockets.

Gone.

His phone is gone, and so are his capsules of water and liquid vitamins. His wallet and passport are in the safehouse on the outskirts of town, beneath two layers of floorboards in a locked safe, along with emergency supplies and a back-up phone -- but there's no way he's going to rush for them now.

'Is it still the first day? How much time has lapsed since I arrived?'

Tetsuya rubs his dry throat. His head is still ringing, and his senses are all dulled, but he can think.

He has to think.

'Who knocked me out?'

He was unable to catch a single glimpse of his attacker. Had it been a common thug? Or--

Hands reaching deeper inside his pockets, Tetsuya can feel the packets of drugs that the police force supplied him with prior to arriving. He had been ordered to hang onto them at all times, for both blending in and potentially getting him out of risky situations if necessary.

For those to have not been taken... Tetsuya swallows.

He isn't tied up. He's been thrown into a warehouse of sorts, but it is empty. There isn't a single crate in the area -- just dust and insects, along with a large, ceiling light that flickers on and off, despite being daytime still; if the midday sun outside is any indication. The metal doors are unhinged, and he can see the crummy, sandy environment outside. Unlike the rundown and dilapidated, almost cyberpunk-like city from before, it seems as if he's in the middle of a desert.

There isn't a single clue...

...Or so it appears. Tetsuya does not know where he is, but he begins to search.

The place is empty, but there are marks. There always are -- and it is his job to find them.

He scours the floor first. Whoever apprehended him has erased all evidence that could potentially lead to them -- stray hairs, lint... Without a full team working to gather the possible traces of DNA left behind, there is no way Tetsuya will get anywhere by staring at the ground.

So he continues. He presses his gloved fingers onto the smooth, cold floor. If he can't test for fingerprints, then it won't matter if he smudges over places his attacker could have touched.

'I won't leave a single speck of this area uninvestigated,' Tetsuya thinks as he glances off to the side.

...

...?

There's something there.

It's barely visible, but it is undeniably there. Eyes narrowing, Tetsuya inches towards it slowly.

There is a very, very subtle shift in the ground. A trap sensor, a bomb trigger--

--it could be anything.

But Tetsuya did not get his fame from being a coward, and he isn't about to start now. Sucking in a breath and then exhaling, he pushes down gently.

He hears a click--

--and then, the irregular expanse of concrete dips downwards ever-so-slightly, before retracting.

A hidden trapdoor.

Inside it is a small compartment--

--but before it even opens, Tetsuya already knows what is inside.

He had realised the very moment that the concrete moved--

--after all, it is nearly impossible to hide the scent of a rotting corpse...

  ...Even if it is just a head.

[jackblankhsh]

Why I Quit:  Home Improvement Store -- Selling Tiki Torches

"So I put the gun in mouth, and was about to squeeze the trigger when the radio -- I don't even remember putting it on -- the radio starts playing a Mötley Crüe song.  And I thought, 'Oh hell no.  The last thing I'm going to hear is not going to be goddamn Mötley Crüe.'  Anyway, long story short, searching for a song to fit the moment, I lost the desire to kill myself."

 The old veterinarian winked at me, "But it'll come back. It always does.  You can only euthanize so many kittens..."

 As she trailed off I handed her a tray of sterilized instruments, "Okay.  On that note, I quit."

 Seeing how the veterinary profession possessed a higher suicide rate than one would expect, I decided not to risk the odds.  Being an assistant might've been safer, but still, I've been known to get deeply depressed doing the dishes.  The endless nature of it... and just knowing that a family is bringing in a beloved pet too sick to... three months later the bender ended.  

 I woke up naked with a bed sheet stuck to my face, glued in place by a puddle of blood spilled from my nose.  Wrapping it around me like a toga I kicked my way through a grove of bottles in search of my clothes.  Glancing back, I saw a curvy women with the contented smile of the well-fucked soundly sleeping.  Her SS Edmund Fitzgerald tattoo made me curious for the details lost in the blackout days behind me.  

 Pulling my jeans out of a bathroom sink, I realized I didn't recognize this place.  Turning on my phone I asked it for directions to my place.  The map app sprang to life indicating I now stood in Virginia.  Consulting another informative application I discovered a terminally malnourished bank account.  Inside my wallet a single twenty dollar bill with a note written across it in my handwriting:

 "Get out before she wakes up.  She's going to stab you."

 I've pulled such blackout related pranks on myself before, leaving cryptic notes warning me of various dangers, and gaffs -- insulting cult leaders, obscene calls to the CIA, and unpaid pizza orders -- however, I didn't feel like taking a chance.  So, making the mistake of trusting myself, I fled the scene.  

 It took a few days to get things in order.  Sure, I starved for the first few days, and maybe I didn't need to rob that waffle house, or the church picnic, but by the end of the week I procured a room at a nearby hotel, and a job at a home improvement store. I didn't expect it to be too long before I could purchase a bus ticket back to Chicago.

 Home improvement shops are essentially giant hardware warehouses.  They're utilitarian in design with shelves rising ridiculously out of reach; capacious buildings scented with a

a unique blend of sawdust, paint, and metal.  Through canyonesque aisles patrons from all walks of life shuffle, body language telegraphing their own personal degree of knowledge:  a burly man tanned into leathery jerky assesses screws by eye, knowing the needed size at a glance; a diminutive blonde housewife navigates her confused husband through electrical supplies, explaining to him what they need to wire a sconce; an old man eyes a toilet skeptically.  And of course, the myriad customers who would use a hammer to put in screws.  

 Mainly due to that last type, employees of such establishments are often practitioners of ninjutsu, particularly the skills known as Shinobi-iri and Intonjutsu.  A befuddled customer approaches an apron clad employee.  The glazed cow eyes of the witless signal to the ninja an idiotic question is fast approaching.  Deftly a smoke bomb is deployed, and the employee vanishes from sight.  The more skilled might simply slip over to the next aisle, disappearing the same way spies are known to dissolve from view when a bus passes by.  

 I never got the hang of such tactics, so instead chose a means of hiding in plain sight.  I spent most of my shifts hanging around a middle aged employee named Gus.  Having retired after several years as a successful contractor, but not yet ready to stop working entirely, Gus worked part time. If a question revolved around home improvement, Gus knew the answer.  Friendly to a degree some might call a fault, he assisted customers before they even finished asking anything.  All I needed to do was stand near him, pause as if considering what to say, and he would answer for me.  That said, I wouldn't be surprised if he suspected my own ineptitude, and merely wanted to keep me from embarrassing myself.

 "I heard the manager ain't too happy with you," Gus said.

 I shrugged, "Hey, I get why, but I thought it would help."

 Gus replied, "You started barbequing in the patio display."

 "I thought it would help sell patio furniture, and let's be clear.  I was grilling, not barbequing.  Don't tell me there isn't a difference."

 Gus held up his hands in surrender, "No argument with that."

 I said, "I also thought the smoke might help with the birds."

 Birds occasionally slipped into the colossal store.  The massive entrance to the open air gardening section allowed them to fly right into the building.  Whole flocks eventually started gathering in the rafters requiring a teenager in a cherry picker to ascend, and battle them with a broom, shooing the birds to the exit.  Sometimes the birds fought back.  The teens didn't always win because some battles can't be fought stoned.

 Gus said, "Never you mind about them birds. They ain't bothering nobody."

 "Sometimes they shit on people."

 "Somebody's always shitting on ya you pay attention." He smiled.  So did I.  You've got to admire that kind of resigned pessimism.  If something bad is inevitable it seems like one can only accept it.  

 "Excuse me?" a young man in khakis and a polo shirt stepped up to me.  

 I said, "Yes sir.  How may I help you?"

 He replied, "I'm looking for tiki torches."

 "Aisle six."  Gus pointed.  The man ignored him.  He seemed determined to wait for me to answer.

 I pointed where Gus had, "Aisle six."

 "Thank you."  The man smiled, losing his grin when he looked at Gus, then walked off.

 "Was that weird?" I asked.

 "Nope.  You're paranoid," Gus said.

 "Doesn't mean it wasn't weird."  But I dropped it, focusing instead on helping Gus inventory plumbing supplies.  

 Minutes later a thirty-something brunette woman in a khaki skirt and white blouse asked, "Hi, I'm wondering about tiki torches."

 "Aisle six, ma'am," Gus said.

 "Is he right?" she asked, leaning towards me, away from Gus.

 "Like he said, 'Aisle six'."

 She lightly touched my shoulder, "Thank you so much."

 Cocking an eyebrow I glanced at Gus.

 He nodded, "Okay.  That was a bit odd."

 Three men walked by, all in khakis and polo shirts.  As they passed us one said, "Hey bro, you know where the tiki torches are?"

 "Aisle six," I said.

 "Good to see one of us in charge."  He pointed at me.  

 Now, I have never been mistaken for an authority figure in my life.  So I felt compelled to suggest to Gus we check out aisle six.  He agreed, and we headed over.  

 When we arrived the aisle seemed to have been taken over by a docile mob of khaki clad white folks.  They happily interacted with one another like long lost friends at an inadvertent reunion.  However few seemed to actually know one another.  Their convivial nature stemmed from the fact they all kept talking about the same thing:  

 "You goin' to the rally tonight?"

 "Course I'm going.  Why you think I'm buying torches?"

 A part of me really started hoping Frankenstein's monster had been spotted somewhere in Charlottesville, and these poster children for white suburbia simply were organizing a mob to go after him.  That would explain the several men milling around in full tactical gear carrying assault rifles.  Each eyed the area as if anxiously awaiting the start of their own private action movie.    

 A man wearing a black t-shirt with a swastika on it asked, "This where the torches at?"

 Seeing how we stood not ten feet from a horde of folks already carrying torches, he displayed exactly the extent of observational skill one expects from someone openly wearing Nazis paraphernalia.  

 So I said, "Nope."

 Gus said, "Customer is always right."

 "No kidding," I said.

 Gus said, "Don't be rude."

 "Listen to the n*****," the Nazis said walking away.

 "You wanna know where the rope is too?" I asked.

 Gus whispered to me, "Don't piss them off.  They are looking for an excuse to do something evil. So how about you shut the fuck up?"

 In the three weeks I worked with him I never heard Gus swear. I figured he possessed too much class for such language.  So when he swore at me the gravity of the situation pulled me back hard.  Plus, it seemed safe to suppose that if I spit enough venom at these fools they would use it as an excuse to not only pound me into paste, but to go after Gus, even if he stayed silent the whole time.  Yet, that didn't mean I had to do nothing.

 I headed for the manager's office.  

 A fat man flanked by two riflemen breathlessly asked me, "We're looking for torches."

 "Aisle seventeen.  All the way the other side of the store."  I misdirected him, and kept on walking.  I hurried into the manager's office.  Paul sat behind his desk filling out paperwork.  

 Looking up he said, "What's up?"

 "There are Nazis buying torches."

 Paul leaned back bemused, "Nazis?"

 "Honest to god swastika wearing Nazis."

 "But they are paying for them."

 I folded my arms across my chest, "Yeah.  So what?"

 Paul shrugged, "If they cause any trouble then throw them out, but hey, sales've been down.  This could put us solidly in the black."  Perhaps noticing the look on my face he added, "Don't do anything stupid."

 "Define stupid."  But before Paul could answer I ducked out, slamming the door behind me.

 I hurried around the store collecting road flares, duct tape, and lighter fluid.  I tied flares to the lighter fluid, opened the container, and poised to ignite the flare, planning to hurl the slopping flaming bomb right into the horde of bigots (I wasn't hundred percent certain it would work, but still wanted to try) -- Gus stood at the edge of the crowd helping a bearded fellow in Klan robes choose a cheaper torch fuel.  I couldn't hear their exchange, but it seemed cordial enough.  The Klansman's wife even laughed along with Gus when he made some joke. After helping them, Gus then took a torch off the shelf, and placed it in the hands of an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair, a small Confederate flag flying over the chair.  

 "Who else needs help?" Gus asked.  Several ignored him, others simply glared, but a few asked him questions he answered readily.  With ready steady polite service he soon cleared the aisle quietly.

 Two teenagers wearing Confederate flag shirts stepped over to me.  One asked, "Whatcha got there?"

 I held up the makeshift flame-grenade, "Most badass way to light your cigarette."

 "For real?"

 "Yeah, here.  Go nuts," I handed it to him, "No charge."

 "Thanks man."  He slapped his buddy on the chest, and the two went outside.  

 Gus walked over, "You know that've gone quicker if you helped me out."

 I nodded, "I don't always do the right thing."

 "You're young.  You got time to fix what's wrong."  He glanced at his watch, "Hey, if we get to it we can finish inventory."

 "Let's do that."  And we did.  It's odd how calming counting pipe fittings can be.  

 Inventory didn't take long.  Then I decided to punch out early.  Walking by the smoldering corpses of two teenagers burnt to a crisp, I lit a cigarette wondering where the rally intended to take place.  I wanted to watch them rage and holler, waving the torches a kind man, whom they despised, helped them purchase.  Too ignorant to be reasoned with, I suspected the delicious irony of the situation would be entirely lost on them.  Someone should be there to appreciate it.  But listening to my mp3 player on the walk back to my hotel a song I couldn't remember downloading came on.  

 Norma Tanega singing "You're Dead".  The opening lyrics hit me like golf ball hail, "They have no use for your song.  You're dead, you're dead, you're dead, you're dead and outta this world."  The song went on in such a black sun tone -- "Now your hope and compassion is gone.  You've sold out your dream to the world.  Stay dead, stay dead, stay dead, you're dead and outta this world." -- and I listened to it fourteen or fifteen times before I got home.

 Cracking open a bottle of whiskey I turned on the TV.  Reports of the rally soon dominated the local news. People throwing up Nazis salutes, chanting Nazis slogans about "blood and soil", and all around looking like a golf resort turned up for a midnight torch parade.  I saw faces I recognized not only from earlier, but regulars I thought I knew.  This wasn't some outsider mob of unfamiliar people, a bigoted other intruding from an alternate reality.  I would see them again, probably tomorrow, casually investigating lighting fixtures, purchasing power tools, in need of putty, paint, and tiles for the kids' bathroom; I would see them again because they were ordinary citizens, a sinister part of the community, unnoticed or actively ignored -- "Will Smithers is a decent neighbor, keeps to himself mostly, but be careful what you say around him, he's not, uh, fond of Jews."

 Somewhere around one in the morning, unable to sleep, I collected my things.  Partly drunk, to a degree somnambulant, I went to the bus station.  There I purchased a late night ticket.  Dawn cracking I left Charlottesville behind.  It felt like running from a fight.  Never mind the umbrella concept of America -- we're all united (E pluribus unum) -- it's hard to fight for a place that isn't your home; and those same white supremacist fools exist in Chicago.  There would be opportunity enough to resist them on home turf, where I knew them on sight better than in Virginia.  Or maybe I just like to think I do... the illusory safety of home.  But mostly I think I just needed to get back to somewhere things at least seemed to make sense, surrounded by familiar madness.  

 Glancing at the time I recalled Gus once told me he got up at five every morning, a routine from his days as a contractor that he never lost.  Knowing he'd be up I called him.

 "Who's calling my phone?" he said playfully.

 "It's me."

 "Seems early for you."

 "I just wanted to let you know I won't be coming in today. Tell Paul, okay?  Tell him I quit."

 "I got a sneaking suspicion he won't mind you being gone."

 "I may have sold a few power tools off the books." I heard him chuckle.  It felt good knowing some folks are still laughing.