Animals We Made

Bub | Part 2

"Okey dokey." The clerk whipped his long pink hair that resembled a jellyfish. "Good morning. I appreciate your patience. We're having issues with the system. Your total is $999.99."

"Are you insane?" Mack ogled the dense, gleaming microphone he'd placed on the counter. "Well, that's expensive."

"Yeah, no shit." The clerk noisily munched his purple bubblegum. "What'd you expect? You're buying a Neumann. These don't go for quarters. It's a diaphragm condenser mike, audio sensitivity at eighty-seven decibels, XLR connectivity technology, unidirectional polar pattern, lifetime warranty included. You checked the price tag, no? Heya. Earth to bud. You fine? Comprende? Neat? Roger that?"

Mack slouched. "Anything cheaper?"

"Depends how cheap we're talking."

"Fifty bucks?"

The clerk retreated into the backroom. Whistling, the door ajar, he jangled things and then grunted at them as if they inconvenienced him. Mack roamed the shop. It had what he needed in abundance: cameras, boom poles, lighting kits, a glittering indoor ocean of electronics.

"Damn and damn." He slapped his own face. "A thousand impossible purchases."

"Use common sense," whispered Bub in his ear. "Grab the mike and run while the clerk is away. You'll be out of here by the time—"

"Oh no you don't!" Mack screamed, flailing his needly arms. "If you believe you can have me in jail before I even get to work, you're in for a rude awakening!"

"Who are you talking to?" The clerk was back behind the cash register, and he blew a purple bubble as his fingers—every other nail blackened with paint—jabbed at the keyboard.

Mack glared at the winged, horned abomination to his left.

Bub stuck out a forked tongue.

Now Mack looked at the employee behind the register and chuckled, limp and nervous. "You don't see anything . . . er . . . unusual in my general vicinity?"

The clerk flared his nostrils, still blowing his bubble that had reached the size of a fist.

Mack once more eyed the devil to his left.

Bub grinned, fangs twinkling.

"Is there nothing out of the ordinary here, no diabolical entities or anything strange?" Mack went on, voice hoarse, and customers peered at him through magazine racks.

The clerk shrugged.

His bubble finally popped, and he gnawed its remains.

"Your options are limited." Wrinkling his nose, he held up the small box he'd retrieved. "This one's $49.99, since that's what the price tag says, but you don't read those as we've established."

Mack looked at Bub, looked at the clerk, looked back at Bub, back at the clerk, back at Bub.

"Are you in line?" snapped a woman, maybe fifty years old, as she approached them. "Don't be a weasel! There are customers behind you!"

"Excuse me." Mack pirouetted her way and clasped his hands together. "You wouldn't happen to see Lucifer himself, king of darkness, standing next to me, would you? Immense, winged fella? Goat horns? Red scales? Yes? No? Maybe?"

Her wrinkles deepened. "I am upset, alarmed, and provoked."

Mack frowned.

"Shop or leave, dude," warned the pink-haired clerk behind the register.

Two yips earned a flinch from Mack.

A droopy-eared Chihuahua peeked out of the woman's bag.

Mack lowered his head and inched toward the register. "Ah, Jesus."