Beep.

For 37.5 hours a week, excluding breaks, the Service500aA1 Supermarket check out machine becomes an extension of my body. As much a part of me as my liver or aorta. I am half-man, half mechanical service beast. 

Beep. 

There is an unwritten agreement between checkout workers and customers, a steady pace that is kept so no one gets hurt. I scan your items and you stay friendly. I'd say my hands are the fastest in West Elfield, but the customer doesn't hold back. They always want to play. 

 Beep. 

This punter has some eyes on him. Real anger hidden in those pupils and probably a knife in his pocket, too. Zeus be damned, Ted Bundy's soul reincarnated right in front of me.

Beep.

Old Ted killed at least 30 and went to the chair. I've worked 30 hours and wish I could go to the gallows. Keep to the contract buster and remember the deal. Last item.

Beep.

Now move along sharp. Thank Jupitar, an efficient bag packer, he went quick.

I always thought of myself as something spectacular, and someday I would sit in front of an interviewer and intrigue them with an answer they never saw coming; stop them dead and beep the frick out their brains. For now, I just beep things. I beep burgers and I beep beetroot. I beep bread and milk quite a lot. I beep bananas, condoms and value meals preserved for time.

Beep.

Jupitar, please. I don't want to be a value pack, let me be a supermarkets special taste, I'm begging you.

Beep.

You know the one,  wealthy people buy them when they need a quick calorie; a tasty tikka masala please, that will do me.

Beep. Beep.

Sometimes items don't go through. Error it says. Now I'm breaking the agreement and leaving myself open for assault. The customer has every right. 

Beep.

 Bingo. Back to business. I wasn't supposed to be an error either. Not me.

Beep.