The store Clerk scanned an icepick and his face was as placid as stone. The store clerk scanned a roll of duct tape and a black balaclava followed by a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and his face slumped with boredom. When the .308 Remington 707 rifle with an attached scope, black stock, and carbon steel barrel was scanned, the clerk doesn’t blink. He doesn’t blink. But when the breakfast style sausage egg and cheese microwavable Hot Pockets five pack is scanned the clerk presses a mock whistle through his teeth. He reacts then.

Malcolm Steadman was buying a gun.

“You sure you want to buy these?” The clerk asked holding up the Hot Pockets. “I know it’s only five dollars and that’s a good deal and all but I ate just two of these and had to shit for hours!”

Malcolm briefly considered the severity of his decision. He mulled the full weight and the recourse of what he was about to buy in his mind. “It couldn’t have been that bad.” He said referring to the Hot Pockets.

“Boy howdy was it!” The clerk replied. “I was almost late to work, and even then I had to go to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Almost got written up for it.”

The clerk had been perfectly pleasant and helpful, even his crass had come off as charming. The sporting goods section of the store was the last one Malcolm visited. The clerk happily pointed Malcolm to the store’s biggest seller, and proudly proclaimed that the gun was a personal favorite. By the time Malcolm had asked for a rifle his basket was already full of goods to be bought, and the clerk happily offered to check him out for all of his items right there.

Overall, buying a life-ending weapon was a pleasant experience.

“I’ll keep the Hot Pockets,” Malcolm said. The clerk shook his head in disappointment and scanned the last item.

“Some bad weather huh?” the clerk asked as Malcolm fished out his wallet. The sky was awash with dirty clouds and hateful rain. It had been awash with dirty clouds and hateful rain for two days now. It was like this the entire season. It was hardly worth mentioning. Malcolm Steadman was buying a gun, a mask, duct tape, and an icepick, who cared what the sky was doing?

He sighed deeply and handed the clerk a thick wad of twenties. “Sure is,” Malcolm replied. He was depressed, isolated, and unmedicated. He was as mad as the moon and terribly on edge. But he could still put in the bare minimum required for small talk.

The clerk took the wad of cash and started counting it, midway through his eyes lit up and a smile crept across his face. “I almost forgot!” he said with mirth, “our gun cases are twenty percent off today, did you want to add one to your purchase?”

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. No reason not to go for broke, considering the circumstances and all. When would he get another chance to buy a gun case, or well, do anything? “Sure,” he said.

The clerk walked out of the checking booth and made his way to the back of the sporting goods aisle. In just a moment he came back with a black plastic case. “I use this same case to keep my keyboard in,” he said, “but that’s only ‘cause I like to display my guns.” He scanned the case, and the price was added to the total due. Malcolm was now a dollar short. With an awkward laugh and no eye contact, Malcolm told the clerk that he couldn’t afford everything now. The clerk looked down at Malcolm’s things, “You can afford everything if you take the icepick off,” he said.

That wouldn’t do.

The icepick, more so than the gun, was the most important thing to his plan.

Malcolm shook his head, then with some reluctance, he pointed at the balaclava, “You can take that off,” he said with a little disappointment. The balaclava, like the gun case, was an impulse buy. It was a small relief to think that Garry wouldn’t have to recognize him to do the deed, but it was probably more important that he didn’t walk down the street openly carrying a rifle into the rich part of town.

“You sure?” the clerk asked, “I can always take the Hot Pockets off…”

Malcolm was sure.

…And just like that Malcolm bought a gun with his groceries.

He had just traded in his own spent and finite time, here represented in US currency, for a weapon designed to cut someone else’s finite time short. Every dozen calls that he vetted as a customer service representative was now part of that exchange. Every cringe-worthy moment that Malcolm spent watching his job’s clock tick by at a slog? That too was part of the trade. Every paid ten-minute break that he spent in a whimsical palaver with Karen before he rejected their friendship for sinister plans? He’d cop that up to the Hot Pockets.

It was time to find Garry.

Sit at a desk and answer the phones, and you too can buy a gun. Malcolm, of course, was not planning on ending a life.

Well… not conventionally. His would end, but only as it was. Now that he had the icepick, now that he had the proper tools for a transorbital lobotomy, Malcolm could put his existential terrors to a halt. All he needed was a gun.

…And a friend to coerce into doing the procedure for him.

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