text: [Themes: Fantasy]
  
  > look around
  I'm at work. There are people shopping around me.
  
  Alive! I'm alive! In my own body It was all a --
  
  Dream? interrupts Ranni from somewhere in the back part of my head. No.
  
  Oh, crumbs.
  
  My office is to the south, and the exit is to the east.
  
  > About yourself
  Lisa. I'm the manager. I'm pretty normal-looking, but a boy at leadership camp said I was cute without my glasses.
  
  > Inventory
  I am carrying:
  a pair of glasses (being worn)
  dark green work slacks (being worn)
  a Cost Cutters blouse (being worn)
  
  > examine the people
  The usual mix: every type of human being except the cute teenaged boy type. Which is good. I need to focus on my job.
  
  > Go south
  I start out but immediately am accosted by a customer.
  
  "Excuse me miss," the old man asks. "Is this coupon good here?"
  
  He presses a coupon into my hand.
  
  > No
  That was a rhetorical question.
  
  > look at the coupon
  The coupon died on Tuesday. "Sorry sir, but this coupon expired yesterday."
  
  He grabs it back. "What?" He stares at it through his thick glasses. "But it's Monday, isn't it?"
  
  I give him a little smile that lets him know: he's old.
  
  He wanders off, confused.
  
  Graham chuckles. Way to mess with the old coot's head, Lise.
  
  > Go south
  I get a few aisles closer this time before a mom and daughter stop me.
  
  "Do both of these have peanuts? My daughter has an allergy."
  
  She hands me a package of Savoury Snax and a package of Peanut Puffs.
  
  Seriously! This is so not my job.
  
  > say yes
  (to the mother)
  There is no reply.
  
  > look at snax
  A hideously coloured package with, unfortunately, one word in English, two if you count "Snax". I can't read the ingredients. It looks like birdfood... gross.
  
  It's pretty tasty, actually, says Ranni.
  
  > look at Peanut
  Ingredients: Whole peanuts, peanut paste, vaporized peanuts, peanut dust... I skip to the end where it says. Warning, may contain --
  
  Traces of peanuts? Ranni suggests.
  
  No. Traces of heavy metals.
  
  Bruuuuuuuutal! moans Graham.
  
  I put the Peanut Puffs back on the shelf, far out of the little girl's reach. It quickly disappears into the blur of colourful products.
  
  > give Snax to mom
  I can't. I can't help imagining the little girl choking to death. She looks a bit bratty, but still.
  
  > GRAHAM, ,EXAMINE SNAX
  Graham peers through my eyes...
  
  Seriously, what is wrong with this store? You can barely find ketchup and dill pickle potato chips and now they're stocking these, these...
  
  Paki foods? says Ranni.
  
  I was gonna say "weird foods."
  
  ...my eyes are my own again.
  
  > RANNI, ,EXAMINE SNAX
  That is so cool! The ingredients go from squiggly letters to real letters.
  
  I read them through. Lots of weird stuff and tongue twisters, but no peanuts. I hand it to the mom and she leaves without even thanking me.
  
  People are so rude. That's why I got into being a manager. I hate being on the frontlines.
  
  > go south
  Finally I make it unaccosted to...
  
  Well, OK, it's not just my office. But I've got my nook, a desk in the corner of the staffroom.
  
  The staffroom has lockers along one wall, a soda machine, and a bench.
  
  On the desk is a calendar.
  
  > Examine calendar
  IMPENDING is the word for Monday. Monday? But...
  
  It's two days before the shooting, Ranni says impatiently. You gotta get rid of that psycho, Lisa.
  
  Also on the calendar for today is a 4pm locker inspection from central office.
  
  And it is, of course, 4pm.
  
  > examine the lockers
  They're the kind that have the combo locks built into the doors, so central office can access them at any time.
  
  Most of them have clearly printed labels stuck on to indicate their owners: JILL, PATRICK, PAUL, RANNY (this was before I knew it was spelt RANNI, so sue me). GRAHAM, JASON, and my own were all written in the sloppy handwriting of my predecessor.
  
  All of a sudden Tim from main office rushes in.
  
  "I'm soooo late," he says. He unlocks the soda machine and takes a can out, then slams it shut.
  
  Jerkwad. Just 'cause he used to work here he acts like he owns the place. "Um, why do you still have a key for--" I start.
  
  "Gotta check the meat room temp," he says, pulling out a thermometer from his windbreaker. "Back in a jiff. Then I'll do the locker check."
  
  Awww, crapsicles! blurts Graham.
  
  "Won't have time for them all, just the new hires -- Patrick, Ranni and Paul," Tim says on his way out the door.
  
  Thank you, Satan! Graham crows.
  
  What are you so happy about? says Ranni. He said he'd be back in a jiff, and we've got to make sure Patrick gets canned today before he gets back!
  
  > examine the desk
  It's a big clunky beast left by my predecessor. Other than a nasty paint stain, the only thing on it is the word-a-day calendar.
  
  > examine the stain
  From Tim's time. He has no respect for Cost Cutters property.
  
  > open the patrick's locker
  I don't know the combo, and they're not in today so I can't ask them. Of course, main office has all the combinations.
  
  > open the ranni's locker
  My hands move of their own (well, I guess, of Ranni's) accord and flick through the combination.
  
  Ranni's locker has his work slacks, a balled up apron and the WHMIS safety regulations taped to his door.
  
  Graham snorts at this. Mr. Worky-work.
  
  It's my work locker! Ranni retorts. What, I'm supposed to have a, a, six pack of beers in there or something?
  
  Graham is silent. (Shocker!)
  
  I shut the locker.
  
  > open the graham's locker
  Nope, Graham says.
  
  Just open it! Ranni says, as exasperated as I feel.
  
  Sorry, kids, ain't gonna happen.
  
  I shake the locked door, noticing as I do that there's some kind of smell coming from the door vents.
  
  > smell it
  That's weird. It smells like my brother's room in the basement. He always keeps it locked, too.
  
  > smell the graham's locker
  I can't be that hands-on, Graham says. But two pairs of eyes are better than one.
  
  > open the lisa's locker
  I unlock it. Inside are my school bag and my normal clothes including --
  
  Mmm, black lacy bra, Graham says, I never would have figured you--
  
  I slam the locker shut and ignore Graham's creepy laugh.
  
  Tim bustles in and counts the lockers and looks up the combos. "Paul..." he starts twirling the combos. "It's not Paul Sorenson, is it? Come back for another hitch?"
  
  "No, it's Chin. Paul Chin."
  
  "It wouldn't be, it wouldn't be. Be in his twenties now. But that guy was hilarious -- he would just crack -- us -- up!"
  
  He yanks the door open. It's empty except for an apron with a nametag and a book called World War Z. He flips through it, staring at it intently, before throwing it back and shutting the locker.
  
  > open the patrick's locker
  Believe me, if I start talking to him he'll start talking about the good ol' days when "managment was of a different quality." He actually said that. Best to just wait the old windbag out.
  
  "OK, Ranni, let's see what you got hiding... yeah, the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood's really changed," Tim laments, opening Ranni's locker.
  
  Yeah. Everything was sooo much better when he worked here, for one.
  
  I don't think that's what he means, says Ranni.
  
  Tim checks the pockets of Ranni's work clothes and looks approvingly at the WHMIS regs taped to the door.
  
  He finishes his inspection and shuts the locker.
  
  > look at Tim
  He's a gawky guy with a bright orange Cost Cutters windbreaker.
  
  Tim opens Patrick's locker. I look over his shoulder to see if I can spot the gun, but the only thing in it is a magazine.
  
  Tim picks it up -- it's an issue of Glocks and Grenades -- and flips through it. For a second he seems to be disturbed, and I have a flicker of hope that he's gonna fire Patrick.
  
  "Don't know... if I have this issue..." he says, looking at the front. "Maybe my subscription's run out."
  
  He tosses it back in and shuts the locker.
  
  I guess he doesn't bring the gun in til tomorrow, says Ranni.
  
  Well, there goes the only chance to change what happened, says Graham.
  
  *** WE DIED FOR GOOD ***
  
  This time there's no visit to the Void. Tim disappears, I feel a nauseating flip in my stomach and I find myself moved a few feet away but still in...
  
  Well, OK, it's not just my office. But I've got my nook, a desk in the corner of the staffroom.
  
  The staffroom has lockers along one wall, a soda machine, and a bench.
  
  On the desk is a calendar.
  
  > About yourself
  Lisa. I'm the manager. I'm pretty normal-looking, but a boy at leadership camp said I was cute without my glasses.
  
  All of a sudden Tim from main office rushes in.
  
  "I'm soooo late," he says. He unlocks the soda machine and takes a can out, then slams it shut. Soooo predictable.
  
  "Gotta check the meat room temp," he says, pulling out a thermometer from his windbreaker. "Back in a jiff. Then I'll do the locker check. Just the new hires -- Patrick, Ranni and Paul," he says on his way out the door.
  
  OK, don't fuck it up this time, Lisa. We don't know if we've got unlimited lives, or what, says Graham.
  
  And we've got like, nine-tenths of a jiff left, says Ranni.
  
  > open the graham's locker
  Ranni has better things to do.
  
  > open the graham's locker
  Nope, Graham says.
  
  Just open it! Ranni says, as exasperated as I feel.
  
  Sorry, kids, ain't gonna happen.
  
  I shake the locked door, noticing as I do that there's some kind of smell coming from the door vents.
  
  > ask Graham about the pot
  Sorry man, I can't just tell you what to do, Graham says. There're these stupid rules.
  
  > open the ranni's locker
  My hands move of their own (well, I guess, of Ranni's) accord and flick through the combination.
  
  Ranni's locker has his work slacks, a balled up apron and the WHMIS safety regulations taped to his door.
  
  Graham snorts at this. Mr. Worky-work.
  
  It's my work locker! Ranni retorts. What, I'm supposed to have a, a, six pack of beers in there or something?
  
  Graham is silent. (Shocker!)
  
  I shut the locker.
  
  > open the ranni's locker
  I don't know his combo.
  
  I don't really know the numbers, either, says Ranni. My hands just do it automatically now.
  
  > examine the lockers
  They're the kind that have the combo locks built into the doors, so central office can access them at any time.
  
  Most of them have clearly printed labels stuck on to indicate their owners: JILL, PATRICK, PAUL, RANNY (this was before I knew it was spelt RANNI, so sue me). GRAHAM, JASON, and my own were all written in the sloppy handwriting of my predecessor.
  
  > take the graham's label
  The label's been there for a few years, so some of the glue's dried up. I manage to get it off without ripping it.
  
  Taken.
  
  > take the patrick's label
  It was applied so recently it peels off smoothly.
  
  Taken.
  
  Tim bustles in and counts the lockers and looks up the combos. "Paul..." he starts twirling the combos. "It's not Paul Sorenson, is it? Come back for another hitch?"
  
  "No, it's Chin. Paul Chin."
  
  "It wouldn't be, it wouldn't be. Be in his twenties now. But that guy was hilarious -- he would just crack -- us -- up!"
  
  He yanks the door open. It's empty except for an apron with a nametag and a book called World War Z. He flips through it, staring at it intently, before throwing it back and shutting the locker.
  
  > put the patrick's label on the graham's locker
  But Tim would totally see me!
  
  "OK, Ranni, let's see what you got hiding... yeah, the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood's really changed," Tim laments, opening Ranni's locker.
  
  Yeah. Everything was sooo much better when he worked here, for one.
  
  I don't think that's what he means, says Ranni.
  
  Tim checks the pockets of Ranni's work clothes and looks approvingly at the WHMIS regs taped to the door.
  
  He finishes his inspection and shuts the locker.
  
  > put the patrick's label on the graham's locker
  But Tim would totally see me!
  
  "Can't see a locker for this Patrick McGuire here," Tim says. "Oh well, I'm sure it's fine."
  
  I am shocked speechless by his lack of professionalism as he sails out the door.
  
  I guess he doesn't bring the gun in til tomorrow, says Ranni.
  
  Well, there goes the only chance to change what happened, says Graham.
  
  *** WE DIED FOR GOOD ***
  
  This time there's no visit to the Void. Tim disappears, I feel a nauseating flip in my stomach and I find myself moved a few feet away but still in...
  
  Well, OK, it's not just my office. But I've got my nook, a desk in the corner of the staffroom.
  
  The staffroom has lockers along one wall, a soda machine, and a bench.
  
  On the desk is a calendar.
  
  > take the patrick's label
  Taken.
  
  All of a sudden Tim from main office rushes in.
  
  "I'm soooo late," he says. He unlocks the soda machine and takes a can out, then slams it shut. Soooo predictable.
  
  "Gotta check the meat room temp," he says, pulling out a thermometer from his windbreaker. "Back in a jiff. Then I'll do the locker check. Just the new hires -- Patrick, Ranni and Paul," he says on his way out the door.
  
  OK, don't fuck it up this time, Lisa. We don't know if we've got unlimited lives, or what, says Graham.
  
  And we've got like, nine-tenths of a jiff left, says Ranni.
  
  > take the graham's label
  Taken.
  
  > put the patrick's label on the graham's locker
  I put Patrick's label on Graham's locker.
  
  > put the graham's label on patrick's locker
  I put Graham's label on Patrick's locker.
  
  > wait
  Time passes.
  
  Tim bustles in and counts the lockers and looks up the combos. "Paul..." he starts twirling the combos. "It's not Paul Sorenson, is it? Come back for another hitch?"
  
  "No, it's Chin. Paul Chin."
  
  "It wouldn't be, it wouldn't be. Be in his twenties now. But that guy was hilarious -- he would just crack -- us -- up!"
  
  He yanks the door open. It's empty except for an apron with a nametag and a book called World War Z. He flips through it, staring at it intently, before throwing it back and shutting the locker.
  
  > wait for a while
  Time passes.
  
  "OK, Ranni, let's see what you got hiding... yeah, the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood's really changed," Tim laments, opening Ranni's locker.
  
  Yeah. Everything was sooo much better when you worked here, Tim.
  
  I don't think that's what he means, says Ranni.
  
  Tim checks the pockets of Ranni's work clothes and looks approvingly at the WHMIS regs taped to the door.
  
  He finishes his inspection and shuts the locker.
  
  > Wait
  Time passes.
  
  Tim opens "Patrick's" locker and immediately grabs a big garbage bag. "What the heck...?"
  
  He opens the bag and the smell fills the room. "I do believe we have ourselves some Wacky Tobacccy, Lisa."
  
  The grin on his face is positively wolfish. Within seconds he's talking to the police on the phone.
  
  Patrick is sooooo fired.
  
  Fired? Graham says. For a bale like that he's going to juvie.
  
  What the hell do you need that much weed for, anyway? Ranni says.
  
  The grow-op in my mom's basement caught fire, one of the lamps, Graham says, I needed to store the stuff I salvaged somewhere.
  
  An unbelievable ending to an unbelievable day. The cops show up and then Patrick shows up and then Patrick's scary uncle shows up -- a big nightmare, needless to say.
  
  But you know what I thought when I was locking up for the night? Could have been worse. Nobody died.
  
  > Kiss tim
  I should keep my mind on the game.
  
  Tim opens "Patrick's" locker and immediately grabs a big garbage bag. "What the heck...?"
  
  He opens the bag and the smell fills the room. "I do believe we have ourselves some Wacky Tobacccy, Lisa."
  
  The grin on his face is positively wolfish. Within seconds he's talking to the police on the phone.
  
  Patrick is sooooo fired.
  
  Fired? Graham says. For a bale like that he's going to juvie.
  
  What the hell do you need that much weed for, anyway? Ranni says.
  
  The grow-op in my mom's basement caught fire, one of the lamps, Graham says, I needed to store the stuff I salvaged somewhere.
  
  An unbelievable ending to an unbelievable day. The cops show up and then Patrick shows up and then Patrick's scary uncle shows up -- a big nightmare, needless to say.
  
  But you know what I thought when I was locking up for the night? Could have been worse. Nobody died.
  
  > check what you're carrying
  I am carrying:
  Graham's label
  a pair of glasses (being worn)
  dark green work slacks (being worn)
  a Cost Cutters blouse (being worn)
  
  > get jill's label
  It's like part of the metal now. Can't get it off without ripping it.