Slurshees

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” Raphael asked as Nader pulled out of the Orangebee’s parking lot and onto the main road. “Froyo Queen?”

“Dude, you just ate one-and-a-half Siesta Lime Chickens. How can you still be hungry?”

“I dunno.” Raphael patted his stomach.

“The plan is to go somewhere secluded and experiment with your powers, but first I need gas.” Nader drove a few blocks down and then turned into his favorite cheap gas station. Of course, the card reader’s out of order. “It says to go inside to pay. I’ll be back.” As Nader got out of the car, so too did Raphael. Nader lifted an eyebrow at him. “What, are you paying?”

“Me? No! I’m getting a snack.” Raphael grinned sheepishly, earning himself an eye roll from his best friend.

A deafening ding-dong chimed as they entered. Nader turned right, toward the cashier, while Raphael turned the opposite direction to where the hot dogs and Slurshees were.

Great, he’s making one of his hot-dog-flavor-bombs, Nader thought, his stomach turning at the idea. Shoot, what pump was I on? Number three, right? He looked out the window and squinted, barely making out the number above his car.

“Hi,” the middle-aged, tatted-up, dirty-blonde employee said. “What’ll it be, honey?”

“Yeah, could I get twenty on number three?” Nader held out a twenty.

“Mmhm.” She took it and worked her magic on the register.

“Thanks!”

“Need a receipt?”

“Uhh, no. I’m good.” Who even needs a receipt? Nader thought, smirking.

“Can I get you anything else, sweetheart?”

“Nope, thanks!” Nader spun around and was struck in the temple by something hard, metal, and shaped like a gun.

It was a gun.

Nader fell to the floor and brought a round display of chips and pork rinds crashing down with him.