Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
"Creative has included some closed-source software with the product that they use to bill you for Internet to POTS calls."
That would be more informative than the rather misleading journalism tactics that the editors seem to be practicing lately. Anything to create a conspiracy...
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
Only PVR that will survive legally will be corp's
on
PVR For Linux
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· Score: -1
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
I smelled the air, ridden with the smell of garbage, as I eased my way into the EZSECURE golf cart with Robert, careful not to spill the hot coffee that I'd obtained at the McDonald's only minutes earlier. "This is my first time driving one of these things," he said with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. "It's okay, Robert," I assured him. "These aren't much different than a car. Make it quick, I want to get away from this dumpster." Unfortunately for my coffee and I, my new recruit had never obtained a driver's license nor driven anything other than a bicycle. I had just one of the most critical errors in the business: misinterpreting a potential threat to the well-being of Walmart's patrons as benign!
Just as Robert was attempting to enable the golf cart's electric motor, we received an urgent message via our walkie-talkie. "Peter! Somebody just left and didn't pay! Stop them!" It was the distress call of Vickie, the night cashier for register five. There wasn't a moment to lose. Our entire livelihood was at stake! I leapt into action without hesitation; this is what I was trained to do. "Robert, get in on the other side!" I exclaimed. The trainee, realizing that our situation was urgent, quickly transferred to the opposite side of the golf cart. In no time flat, we were dashing to the front door of our beloved Walmart. When we arrived, a man, presumably the suspect, was walking rapidly to his car. We pulled up along side of him. I would estimate that he was approximately 6'1" and 280 pounds. A bit chubby, but most likely capable of violence.
"Stop, criminal!" I drew a can of mace instantaneously. The astonished thief quickly put his hands up and he dropped the bag containing the stolen goods. He knew that he'd been caught in the act. There was nothing he could do in order to gain the advantage in this situation.
The man spoke without any resemblance of a native Jasper citizen's accent. "I'm not a criminal, you old fogey." Sure you aren't, I thought to myself. I'd heard this line hundreds of times prior to this incident. He exhibited a glare that would have intimidated less seasoned veterans into submission. "I was buying DVDs for my son, moron. We're on our way to Louisiana and he was becoming restless, so I thought I'd surprise him with some movies when he awoke from his nap."
As the thief futilely attempted to share his alibi, Vickie ran out of the store. Struggling to find her breath, she explained, "It's okay, Peter. Sandra forgot to deactivate the Checkpoint tags. Uh, he's fine... Let him go..." Her embarassment was made obvious by her red cheeks. She'd just dispatched an elite squadron of trained officers to apprehend an innocent man.
"Um, I apologize for the inconvenience," I said as I looked in the innocent man's direction. "What is your name, if I may ask?"
"Screw you," he retorted. "You inept, dollar an hour morons just ruined my vacation. I'll be leaving in a moment, once I eat the rest of my Quarter Pounder with Cheese."
The three of us then went our opposite ways. Robert and I walked back to the golf cart; he recommended that I teach him how to manuever our patrol cruiser. He started the golf cart and began driving it rather skillfully. "You're doing well," I complimented. He looked over at me, smiling proudly.
As he began to focus on driving again, an automobile's headlights blinded both of us. My hand instinctually grabbed the EZSECURE golf cart's hand rail. All I could hear was the twisting and tearing of metal; all I could see was an emblem resembling a silver star (one I'd never before observed), apparently lit by the reflection of the front parking lot's stadium lighting, as everything faded to the darkest of ebony...
I smelled the air, ridden with the smell of garbage, as I eased my way into the EZSECURE golf cart with Robert, careful not to spill the hot coffee that I'd obtained at the McDonald's only minutes earlier. "This is my first time driving one of these things," he said with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. "It's okay, Robert," I assured him. "These aren't much different than a car. Make it quick, I want to get away from this dumpster." Unfortunately for my coffee and I, my new recruit had never obtained a driver's license nor driven anything other than a bicycle. I had just one of the most critical errors in the business: misinterpreting a potential threat to the well-being of Walmart's patrons as benign!
Just as Robert was attempting to enable the golf cart's electric motor, we received an urgent message via our walkie-talkie. "Peter! Somebody just left and didn't pay! Stop them!" It was the distress call of Vickie, the night cashier for register five. There wasn't a moment to lose. Our entire livelihood was at stake! I leapt into action without hesitation; this is what I was trained to do. "Robert, get in on the other side!" I exclaimed. The trainee, realizing that our situation was urgent, quickly transferred to the opposite side of the golf cart. In no time flat, we were dashing to the front door of our beloved Walmart. When we arrived, a man, presumably the suspect, was walking rapidly to his car. We pulled up along side of him. I would estimate that he was approximately 6'1" and 280 pounds. A bit chubby, but most likely capable of violence.
"Stop, criminal!" I drew a can of mace instantaneously. The astonished thief quickly put his hands up and he dropped the bag containing the stolen goods. He knew that he'd been caught in the act. There was nothing he could do in order to gain the advantage in this situation.
The man spoke without any resemblance of a native Jasper citizen's accent. "I'm not a criminal, you old fogey." Sure you aren't, I thought to myself. I'd heard this line hundreds of times prior to this incident. He exhibited a glare that would have intimidated less seasoned veterans into submission. "I was buying DVDs for my son, moron. We're on our way to Louisiana and he was becoming restless, so I thought I'd surprise him with some movies when he awoke from his nap."
As the thief futilely attempted to share his alibi, Vickie ran out of the store. Struggling to find her breath, she explained, "It's okay, Peter. Sandra forgot to deactivate the Checkpoint tags. Uh, he's fine... Let him go..." Her embarassment was made obvious by her red cheeks. She'd just dispatched an elite squadron of trained officers to apprehend an innocent man.
"Um, I apologize for the inconvenience," I said as I looked in the innocent man's direction. "What is your name, if I may ask?"
"Screw you," he retorted. "You inept, dollar an hour morons just ruined my vacation. I'll be leaving in a moment, once I eat the rest of my Quarter Pounder with Cheese."
The three of us then went our opposite ways. Robert and I walked back to the golf cart; he recommended that I teach him how to manuever our patrol cruiser. He started the golf cart and began driving it rather skillfully. "You're doing well," I complimented. He looked over at me, smiling proudly.
As he began to focus on driving again, an automobile's headlights blinded both of us. My hand instinctually grabbed the EZSECURE golf cart's hand rail. All I could hear was the twisting and tearing of metal; all I could see was an emblem resembling a silver star (one I'd never before observed), apparently lit by the reflection of the front parking lot's stadium lighting, as everything faded to black...
I smelled the air, ridden with the smell of garbage, as I eased my way into the EZSECURE golf cart with Robert, careful not to spill the hot coffee that I'd obtained at the McDonald's only minutes earlier. "This is my first time driving one of these things," he said with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. "It's okay, Robert," I assured him. "These aren't much different than a car. Make it quick, I want to get away from this dumpster." Unfortunately for my coffee and I, my new recruit had never obtained a driver's license nor driven anything other than a bicycle. I had just one of the most critical errors in the business: misinterpreting a potential threat to the well-being of Walmart's patrons as benign!
Just as Robert was attempting to enable the golf cart's electric motor, we received an urgent message via our walkie-talkie. "Peter! Somebody just left and didn't pay! Stop them!" It was the distress call of Vickie, the night cashier for register five. There wasn't a moment to lose. Our entire livelihood was at stake! I leapt into action without hesitation; this is what I was trained to do. "Robert, get in on the other side!" I exclaimed. The trainee, realizing that our situation was urgent, quickly transferred to the opposite side of the golf cart. In no time flat, we were dashing to the front door of our beloved Walmart. When we arrived, a man, presumably the suspect, was walking rapidly to his car. We pulled up along side of him. I would estimate that he was approximately 6'1" and 280 pounds. A bit chubby, but most likely capable of violence.
"Stop, criminal!" I drew a can of mace instantaneously. The astonished thief quickly put his hands up and he dropped the bag containing the stolen goods. He knew that he'd been caught in the act. There was nothing he could do in order to gain the advantage in this situation.
The man spoke without any resemblance of a native Jasper citizen's accent. "I'm not a criminal, you old fogey." Sure you aren't, I thought to myself. I'd heard this line hundreds of times prior to this incident. He exhibited a glare that would have intimidated less seasoned veterans into submission. "I was buying DVDs for my son, moron. We're on our way to Louisiana and he was becoming restless, so I thought I'd surprise him with some movies when he awoke from his nap."
As the thief futilely attempted to share his alibi, Vickie ran out of the store. Struggling to find her breath, she explained, "It's okay, Peter. Sandra forgot to deactivate the Checkpoint tags. Uh, he's fine... Let him go..." Her embarassment was made obvious by her red cheeks. She'd just dispatched an elite squadron of trained officers to apprehend an innocent man.
"Um, I apologize for the inconvenience," I said as I looked in the innocent man's direction. "What is your name, if I may ask?"
"Screw you," he retorted. "You inept, dollar an hour morons just ruined my vacation. I'll be leaving in a moment, once I eat the rest of my Quarter Pounder with Cheese."
The three of us then went our opposite ways. Robert and I walked back to the golf cart; he recommended that I teach him how to manuever our patrol cruiser. He started the golf cart and began driving it rather skillfully. "You're doing well," I complemented. He looked over at me, smiling proudly.
As he began to focus on driving again, an automobile's headlights blinded both of us. My hand instinctually grabbed the EZSECURE golf cart's hand rail. All I could hear was the twisting and tearing of metal; all I could see was an emblem resembling a silver star (one I'd never before observed), apparently lit by the reflection of the front parking lot's stadium lighting, as everything faded to black...
I'm glad that Slashdot isn't doing anything for April Fools Day. All of the stories pertaining to this website seem perfectly believable today.
Walmart Security Training information for Apr. 1
on
CPAN Shifts Focus
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· Score: 0, Offtopic
My weathered hand rested effortlessly on the blue EZSECURE patrol cart's steering device as the blinding incandescence of a Chevrolet SUV's headlights temporarily rendered me unable to see. Inconsiderate out-of-towners who never respected the law, probably. After it had vacated the premises and the slight glimmer of light eminating from the moon was all that remained, I realized that it was 11:30, the official beginning of my shift at the local Walmart. It would last until the early morning hours when the sun would rise and Brady would arrive to relieve me of my sworn duty: protect the Walmart and its patrons with my life. I would then return to my residence here in the relatively small town of Jasper, Texas to prepare for another patrol.
Fortunately, as of an hour later, my patrol might not longer evoke the ennui that it had for the past fifteen years. After fifty years of service, The EZSECURE Corporation was entrusting me with the prodigious task of training an aspiring security guard on site as my seventieth birthday present! I could hardly wait to meet my proteg. This was unquestionably the most exciting thing I had experienced since the Country Music Fair was held here in 1978. Ah, the memories... I digress.
I applied the brake gently and disabled the golf cart's electric motor. "Use that there break real gently now," my supervisor had told me years ago, when the golf carts were new. "If you don't, it'll get old quicker and cost EZSECURE more funds." At the time, I assured him that his advice was nothing more than an old wife's tale, but he threatened me in his most intimidating (and greatly accentuated) voice with demotion. I complied only because I had no intention of becoming a security camera operator again.
The Walmart's warm air welcomed my frail, wrinkled body as I walked briskly through the automatic door, my black and gray hair blowing uncontrollably due to the amount of air travelling through the door. It smelled of plastic and hand cream, but even the smell of dead fish would be more pleasant than the utterly glacial conditions outside. "Morning Kevin," I said to the Home and Gardens cashier, who rarely, if ever, replied vocally to my greetings. I suspected that he must have been a hippie, because the twentysomething blond would reply with some sort of peace symbol using his middle finger, but this morning he was uncharacteristically fatigued. Perhaps he'd fallen victim to drugs, like so many other children today with deadbeat parents. Apparently he'd arrived only moments prior, for he hadn't even powered up his electronic cash register.
After exiting the pseudo-warehouse where Kevin was assigned, I continued walking until I reached the twenty-four hour McDonalds nestled safely inside of the Walmart. As always, I purchased an eight ounce cup of freshly brewed coffee. Not only would the caffeine assist me in remaining alert during the morning hours, but I believed the coffee's inherent warmth would assist me in carrying out my nightly tasks and, if necessary, defend Walmart from aggressors.
"Peter? Peter Geralds?" an unconfident voice queried from behind me. I drew a can of mace and turned expediously, nearly emptying the hot drink on my uniform in the process. The boy jumped back, realizing that I wasn't fond of surprises. EZSECURE had trained me to react with the mace in a millisecond.
"Yes sir, that's me," I replied politely as I placed the can of mace back into my pocket. This boy wasn't a threat. After all, would a malevolent criminal be wearing an EZSECURE uniform? Certainly not. "I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Robert. Manager Bob ordered me to report to you for training." The cadet wasn't exactly what I'd anticipated. He was lanky, probably around 6'2" in stature, with blonde hair that appeared quite dark under the dimmed flourescent lights overhead.
I stepped closer to him and held out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I told him with utmost confidence.
Shaking my hand, he hesitated to reply until we'd finished. "Likewise, Peter." I picked up my coffee again and we began walking back to the Home and Gardens area of Walmart. While we were in transit, he explained that he'd been born in Japan and that his parents had immigrated to the United States shortly thereafter. "If you're Japanese, why did your parents name you Robert?" I asked him inquisitively. It certainly intrigued me that he'd not been assigned a Japanese name, for many of them were quite interesting to a layman such as myself. Whereas I'd be more inclined to name my child "Bobby-Sue," people who weren't native Jasper residents often chose poetic, interesting names for their offspring.
"They were very worried that I wouldn't fit in with other children," he informed me. Logical, I thought. Robert spoke both English and Japanese fluently; perhaps he would be an invaluable negotiator if we were ever held hostage by Japanese terrorists.
The golf cart was barely twenty feet away. "Let's start your training," I suggested as I took another drink of my coffee. "Welcome to the security business."
Avian Carriers? Walmart security guard training...
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IP Replaces Avian Carriers
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· Score: -1, Offtopic
My weathered hand rested effortlessly on the blue EZSECURE patrol cart's steering device as the blinding incandescence of a Chevrolet SUV's headlights temporarily rendered me unable to see. Inconsiderate out-of-towners who never respected the law, probably. After it had vacated the premises and the slight glimmer of light eminating from the moon was all that remained, I realized that it was 11:30, the official beginning of my shift at the local Walmart. It would last until the early morning hours when the sun would rise and Brady would arrive to relieve me of my sworn duty: protect the Walmart and its patrons with my life. I would then return to my residence here in the relatively small town of Jasper, Texas to prepare for another patrol.
Fortunately, as of an hour later, my patrol might not longer evoke the ennui that it had for the past fifteen years. After fifty years of service, The EZSECURE Corporation was entrusting me with the prodigious task of training an aspiring security guard on site as my seventieth birthday present! I could hardly wait to meet my proteg. This was unquestionably the most exciting thing I had experienced since the Country Music Fair was held here in 1978. Ah, the memories... I digress.
I applied the brake gently and disabled the golf cart's electric motor. "Use that there break real gently now," my supervisor had told me years ago, when the golf carts were new. "If you don't, it'll get old quicker and cost EZSECURE more funds." At the time, I assured him that his advice was nothing more than an old wife's tale, but he threatened me in his most intimidating (and greatly accentuated) voice with demotion. I complied only because I had no intention of becoming a security camera operator again.
The Walmart's warm air welcomed my frail, wrinkled body as I walked briskly through the automatic door, my black and gray hair blowing uncontrollably due to the amount of air travelling through the door. It smelled of plastic and hand cream, but even the smell of dead fish would be more pleasant than the utterly glacial conditions outside. "Morning Kevin," I said to the Home and Gardens cashier, who rarely, if ever, replied vocally to my greetings. I suspected that he must have been a hippie, because the twentysomething blond would reply with some sort of peace symbol using his middle finger, but this morning he was uncharacteristically fatigued. Perhaps he'd fallen victim to drugs, like so many other children today with deadbeat parents. Apparently he'd arrived only moments prior, for he hadn't even powered up his electronic cash register.
After exiting the pseudo-warehouse where Kevin was assigned, I continued walking until I reached the twenty-four hour McDonalds nestled safely inside of the Walmart. As always, I purchased an eight ounce cup of freshly brewed coffee. Not only would the caffeine assist me in remaining alert during the morning hours, but I believed the coffee's inherent warmth would assist me in carrying out my nightly tasks and, if necessary, defend Walmart from aggressors.
"Peter? Peter Geralds?" an unconfident voice queried from behind me. I drew a can of mace and turned expediously, nearly emptying the hot drink on my uniform in the process. The boy jumped back, realizing that I wasn't fond of surprises. EZSECURE had trained me to react with the mace in a millisecond.
"Yes sir, that's me," I replied politely as I placed the can of mace back into my pocket. This boy wasn't a threat. After all, would a malevolent criminal be wearing an EZSECURE uniform? Certainly not. "I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Robert. Manager Bob ordered me to report to you for training." The cadet wasn't exactly what I'd anticipated. He was lanky, probably around 6'2" in stature, with blonde hair that appeared quite dark under the dimmed flourescent lights overhead.
I stepped closer to him and held out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I told him with utmost confidence.
Shaking my hand, he hesitated to reply until we'd finished. "Likewise, Peter." I picked up my coffee again and we began walking back to the Home and Gardens area of Walmart. While we were in transit, he explained that he'd been born in Japan and that his parents had immigrated to the United States shortly thereafter. "If you're Japanese, why did your parents name you Robert?" I asked him inquisitively. It certainly intrigued me that he'd not been assigned a Japanese name, for many of them were quite interesting to a layman such as myself. Whereas I'd be more inclined to name my child "Bobby-Sue," people who weren't native Jasper residents often chose poetic, interesting names for their offspring.
"They were very worried that I wouldn't fit in with other children," he informed me. Logical, I thought. Robert spoke both English and Japanese fluently; perhaps he would be an invaluable negotiator if we were ever held hostage by Japanese terrorists.
The golf cart was barely twenty feet away. "Let's start your training," I suggested as I took another drink of my coffee. "Welcome to the security business."
My weathered hand rested effortlessly on the blue EZSECURE patrol cart's steering device as the blinding incandescence of a Chevrolet SUV's headlights temporarily rendered me unable to see. Inconsiderate out-of-towners who never respected the law, probably. After it had vacated the premises and the slight glimmer of light eminating from the moon was all that remained, I realized that it was 11:30, the official beginning of my shift at the local Walmart. It would last until the early morning hours when the sun would rise and Brady would arrive to relieve me of my sworn duty: protect the Walmart and its patrons with my life. I would then return to my residence here in the relatively small town of Jasper, Texas to prepare for another patrol.
Fortunately, as of an hour later, my patrol might not longer evoke the ennui that it had for the past fifteen years. After fifty years of service, The EZSECURE Corporation was entrusting me with the prodigious task of training an aspiring security guard on site as my seventieth birthday present! I could hardly wait to meet my proteg. This was unquestionably the most exciting thing I had experienced since the Country Music Fair was held here in 1978. Ah, the memories... I digress.
I applied the brake gently and disabled the golf cart's electric motor. "Use that there break real gently now," my supervisor had told me years ago, when the golf carts were new. "If you don't, it'll get old quicker and cost EZSECURE more funds." At the time, I assured him that his advice was nothing more than an old wife's tale, but he threatened me in his most intimidating (and greatly accentuated) voice with demotion. I complied only because I had no intention of becoming a security camera operator again.
The Walmart's warm air welcomed my frail, wrinkled body as I walked briskly through the automatic door, my black and gray hair blowing uncontrollably due to the amount of air travelling through the door. It smelled of plastic and hand cream, but even the smell of dead fish would be more pleasant than the utterly glacial conditions outside. "Morning Kevin," I said to the Home and Gardens cashier, who rarely, if ever, replied vocally to my greetings. I suspected that he must have been a hippie, because the twentysomething blond would reply with some sort of peace symbol using his middle finger, but this morning he was uncharacteristically fatigued. Perhaps he'd fallen victim to drugs, like so many other children today with deadbeat parents. Apparently he'd arrived only moments prior, for he hadn't even powered up his electronic cash register.
After exiting the pseudo-warehouse where Kevin was assigned, I continued walking until I reached the twenty-four hour McDonalds nestled safely inside of the Walmart. As always, I purchased an eight ounce cup of freshly brewed coffee. Not only would the caffeine assist me in remaining alert during the morning hours, but I believed the coffee's inherent warmth would assist me in carrying out my nightly tasks and, if necessary, defend Walmart from aggressors.
"Peter? Peter Geralds?" an unconfident voice queried from behind me. I drew a can of mace and turned expediously, nearly emptying the hot drink on my uniform in the process. The boy jumped back, realizing that I wasn't fond of surprises. EZSECURE had trained me to react with the mace in a millisecond.
"Yes sir, that's me," I replied politely as I placed the can of mace back into my pocket. This boy wasn't a threat. After all, would a malevolent criminal be wearing an EZSECURE uniform? Certainly not. "I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Robert. Manager Bob ordered me to report to you for training." The cadet wasn't exactly what I'd anticipated. He was lanky, probably around 6'2" in stature, with blonde hair that appeared quite dark under the dimmed flourescent lights overhead.
I stepped closer to him and held out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I told him with utmost confidence.
Shaking my hand, he hesitated to reply until we'd finished. "Likewise, Peter." I picked up my coffee again and we began walking back to the Home and Gardens area of Walmart. While we were in transit, he explained that he'd been born in Japan and that his parents had immigrated to the United States shortly thereafter. "If you're Japanese, why did your parents name you Robert?" I asked him inquisitively. It certainly intrigued me that he'd not been assigned a Japanese name, for many of them were quite interesting to a layman such as myself. Whereas I'd be more inclined to name my child "Bobby-Sue," people who weren't native Jasper residents often chose poetic, interesting names for their offspring.
"They were very worried that I wouldn't fit in with other children," he informed me. Logical, I thought. Robert spoke both English and Japanese fluently; perhaps he would be an invaluable negotiator if we were ever held hostage by Japanese terrorists.
The golf cart was barely twenty feet away. "Let's start your training," I suggested as I took another drink of my coffee. "Welcome to the security business."
Slashdot Mirror
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Episode 3.5: Convoluted Ambition
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard.
"Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well."
"No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning.
It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech.
"Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment.
The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard. "Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well." "No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning. It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech. "Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment. The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
Upon hearing those words, the world began to completely exhibit its infinite amount of austerity. I had dedicated everything to protecting others, only to be removed from my chosen profession. Numerous times I had risked my life, oblivious to any possible consequence, to rescue automobiles from rogue shopping carts, crying children from abandonment, and old men from a certain type of narcissistic paranoia. Feeling a cool sensation on my face, I realized that I was doing something that no hardened warrior such as myself should never do, no matter how comforting it may seem. For the first time since they had erected the Walmart, I was crying. Perhaps, after all of the years that I had served my beloved cause, I was no longer able to effectively defend it. As the hospital pillow warmed my face that fateful evening, I decided that my legacy would be to educate Robert about SWD (an acronym for "Strategic Walmart Defense") and, eventually, relinquish my privileges as a security guard. "Robert?" My voice hadn't completely returned; instead, it sounded quite emotional, similar to that of a brave warrior's final, futile cry during battle. "Would you mind finding EZSECURE's corporate phone number for me? Oh, and a pen and piece of paper as well." "No, of course not," he replied, in a vain but ambitious attempt to calm me, as he produced a pen from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pad of paper from the table nearest the hallway door. "Get some rest, will you? I'll bring you the number tomorrow morning, as soon as I wake up." I relayed my gratitude to Robert as he exited the desolate hospital room. He wouldn't enter it again until the next morning. It was absolutely imperative that I schedule an appointment with EZSECURE's CEO, Thorslen Edwards, to convince him of my superlativeness as a security guard; perhaps he would permit me to return to my duties and fulfill my recently finalized plan. Grasping the plastic "Bic" pen, I began to compose my speech. "Dear Mr. Edwards," I wrote. No, the word "dear" was unprofessional. In fact, an introductory statement wasn't proper, for I intended to deliver the speech personally. When my hand began to ache from inserting text onto paper, I decided to speak to Edwards extemporaneously. After all, I couldn't anticipate any of the questions that could be lurking inside of this accomplished man's mind. It would be both more efficient and more impressive to exercise my extensive tactical knowledge during the appointment. The hospital began to quiet as the clock approached midnight. If it had been eight in the morning, the ardent sun beginning to illuminate Jasper, I would certainly be comfortable enough to engage in a restful night's sleep. For the moment, however, a nap would suffice.
"Creative has included some closed-source software with the product that they use to bill you for Internet to POTS calls."
That would be more informative than the rather misleading journalism tactics that the editors seem to be practicing lately. Anything to create a conspiracy...
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
... JonKatz's pen name is public knowledge now. We know it's you, Jon "September 11 IT" Katz.
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
It was late, nearly seven in the morning. The sun was rising; it crept through my window, seemingly in defiance of the darkness that was beginning to elude it. Its effluence of light had proven itself to be more beautiful every day. A mere twenty years of age, I'd not yet experienced a job in which people trusted you, especially with their well-being. Searching futily for the cable that connected the remote control to the new Zenith television that I'd purchased from my parents, I realized that my appointment was only an hour away. I hadn't any time to leisurely brew coffee and catch up on the country's events. As I stepped out of bed, I cringed slightly. The tile floor always seemed gelid to my bare feet during the winter, especially after one of those egregiously arctic nights when it seemed as though the season would never enter the transition to spring.
According to popular rumor, William Robinson, the man who would later interview me, was facilely impressed by somebody who wore fashionable clothing. I had purchased a pink polo shirt and dress pants a week prior from the Sears catalog. Today I would exhibit them as I attempted to become a security assistant. I stepped into the five year old maroon, 1947 Plymouth that I'd inherited from my grandfather. It operated immaculately. The bleak, uneventful drive to Robinson's office seemed like an eternity; I was quite eager to commence my interview.
"So you're Peter Geralds," a stocky man greeted me. He pointed at a chair. "Come, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." I replied with all of the calmness that I could muster.
He chuckled. "A martini?"
I had anticipated that William would be a businesslike, humorless man. What a pleasant surprise it was to meet somebody in an executive position that was so laid-back. "So, you want to be a security..." He flipped through my application. "... assistant, do you?"
"Why yes sir, I do." I hadn't been in a mood as pleasant as this for months, perhaps even years.
Then his smile turned to a rather maniacal glare. "You won't live long enough to be one." He hastily produced a Smith and Wesson revolver from his desk drawer and fired twice. I screamed as the bullets penetrated my chest. The man then walked over to my chair and pushed me to the floor. After a moment, I was drowning in my own warm blood, unable to think of anything but the searing pain...
... "Yeah, yeah. No, patient two-four-seven isn't conscious. Yeah, I want a cheeseburger. With mayo. Go get them, Rhonda. Now!" A man said commandingly.
"Fine, you anal-retentive... Ugh." The second voice was that of a woman; she seemed to be unwilling to comply.
I opened my eyes attenuately. Unbearable pain indicated that I hadn't utilized them for days. My unfocused eyes created a vision of a white blur overhead. Perhaps I'd entered the afterlife. "Are you an angel?" I queried.
Whoever was standing over me began laughing feverishly. "I'm Thomas, your doctor. You certainly have a good sense of humor for somebody who has been unconscious for two days." His voice increased in intensity. "Hey Rhonda, before you leave, mark two-four-seven as conscious!"
"Where am I? Where's Robert? What happened?!" I was fretting. After all, he was my direct responsibility. If he had died, I promised myself that I would leave the security business permanently both in mourning and to prevent another tragedy occuring on my watch.
"You're at Christus Jasper Memorial. I'm afraid to say that Robert Arishima..." I interrupted the doctor in mid-sentence. "No!" I screamed, on the edge of tears. "He can't be dead! Not Robert! Why not me?"
Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. "I'm afraid to say that Mr. Arishima was released without injury two days ago, so you can't see him presently. Would you like me to call him?"
I felt as though I was a simpleton. How humiliating. Hopefully the doctor would practice a lot of discretion with both his peers and other patients, as well as Robert. "Yes, if it isn't bothersome."
"No, not at all," he replied. "Also, I have your incident report here, would you like to read it?"
Predictably, I responded with one word: "yes." Maybe it would shed light on the accident that Robert and I were involved in. My eyes, fortunately, were now focused. I grasped the paper as Thomas handed it to me and began reading the hastily constructed, rather inaccurate report:
"Incident report submitted by Harris on 3 April at 4 AM.
Two security attendants at Jasper Walmart Supercenter (Robert Arishima, Peter Geralds; blue EZSECURE golf cart, 1992) involved in vehicular collision with Paul Cryer (silver Mercedes-Benz SUV, 2001). Cryer reports that an unprovoked altercation (Arishima and Geralds being the aggressors) between the three preceded the accident..."
"Hey, Peter?" It was Robert! I ceased reading as he entered the room. "I've got bad news. You've um, been suspended as a security guard until EZSECURE investigates what happened. I'm sorry... Are you okay?"
I smelled the air, ridden with the smell of garbage, as I eased my way into the EZSECURE golf cart with Robert, careful not to spill the hot coffee that I'd obtained at the McDonald's only minutes earlier. "This is my first time driving one of these things," he said with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. "It's okay, Robert," I assured him. "These aren't much different than a car. Make it quick, I want to get away from this dumpster." Unfortunately for my coffee and I, my new recruit had never obtained a driver's license nor driven anything other than a bicycle. I had just one of the most critical errors in the business: misinterpreting a potential threat to the well-being of Walmart's patrons as benign!
Just as Robert was attempting to enable the golf cart's electric motor, we received an urgent message via our walkie-talkie. "Peter! Somebody just left and didn't pay! Stop them!" It was the distress call of Vickie, the night cashier for register five. There wasn't a moment to lose. Our entire livelihood was at stake! I leapt into action without hesitation; this is what I was trained to do. "Robert, get in on the other side!" I exclaimed. The trainee, realizing that our situation was urgent, quickly transferred to the opposite side of the golf cart. In no time flat, we were dashing to the front door of our beloved Walmart. When we arrived, a man, presumably the suspect, was walking rapidly to his car. We pulled up along side of him. I would estimate that he was approximately 6'1" and 280 pounds. A bit chubby, but most likely capable of violence. "Stop, criminal!" I drew a can of mace instantaneously. The astonished thief quickly put his hands up and he dropped the bag containing the stolen goods. He knew that he'd been caught in the act. There was nothing he could do in order to gain the advantage in this situation.
The man spoke without any resemblance of a native Jasper citizen's accent. "I'm not a criminal, you old fogey." Sure you aren't, I thought to myself. I'd heard this line hundreds of times prior to this incident. He exhibited a glare that would have intimidated less seasoned veterans into submission. "I was buying DVDs for my son, moron. We're on our way to Louisiana and he was becoming restless, so I thought I'd surprise him with some movies when he awoke from his nap." As the thief futilely attempted to share his alibi, Vickie ran out of the store. Struggling to find her breath, she explained, "It's okay, Peter. Sandra forgot to deactivate the Checkpoint tags. Uh, he's fine... Let him go..." Her embarassment was made obvious by her red cheeks. She'd just dispatched an elite squadron of trained officers to apprehend an innocent man. "Um, I apologize for the inconvenience," I said as I looked in the innocent man's direction. "What is your name, if I may ask?"
"Screw you," he retorted. "You inept, dollar an hour morons just ruined my vacation. I'll be leaving in a moment, once I eat the rest of my Quarter Pounder with Cheese." The three of us then went our opposite ways. Robert and I walked back to the golf cart; he recommended that I teach him how to manuever our patrol cruiser. He started the golf cart and began driving it rather skillfully. "You're doing well," I complimented. He looked over at me, smiling proudly. As he began to focus on driving again, an automobile's headlights blinded both of us. My hand instinctually grabbed the EZSECURE golf cart's hand rail. All I could hear was the twisting and tearing of metal; all I could see was an emblem resembling a silver star (one I'd never before observed), apparently lit by the reflection of the front parking lot's stadium lighting, as everything faded to the darkest of ebony...
I smelled the air, ridden with the smell of garbage, as I eased my way into the EZSECURE golf cart with Robert, careful not to spill the hot coffee that I'd obtained at the McDonald's only minutes earlier. "This is my first time driving one of these things," he said with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. "It's okay, Robert," I assured him. "These aren't much different than a car. Make it quick, I want to get away from this dumpster." Unfortunately for my coffee and I, my new recruit had never obtained a driver's license nor driven anything other than a bicycle. I had just one of the most critical errors in the business: misinterpreting a potential threat to the well-being of Walmart's patrons as benign!
Just as Robert was attempting to enable the golf cart's electric motor, we received an urgent message via our walkie-talkie. "Peter! Somebody just left and didn't pay! Stop them!" It was the distress call of Vickie, the night cashier for register five. There wasn't a moment to lose. Our entire livelihood was at stake! I leapt into action without hesitation; this is what I was trained to do. "Robert, get in on the other side!" I exclaimed. The trainee, realizing that our situation was urgent, quickly transferred to the opposite side of the golf cart. In no time flat, we were dashing to the front door of our beloved Walmart. When we arrived, a man, presumably the suspect, was walking rapidly to his car. We pulled up along side of him. I would estimate that he was approximately 6'1" and 280 pounds. A bit chubby, but most likely capable of violence. "Stop, criminal!" I drew a can of mace instantaneously. The astonished thief quickly put his hands up and he dropped the bag containing the stolen goods. He knew that he'd been caught in the act. There was nothing he could do in order to gain the advantage in this situation.
The man spoke without any resemblance of a native Jasper citizen's accent. "I'm not a criminal, you old fogey." Sure you aren't, I thought to myself. I'd heard this line hundreds of times prior to this incident. He exhibited a glare that would have intimidated less seasoned veterans into submission. "I was buying DVDs for my son, moron. We're on our way to Louisiana and he was becoming restless, so I thought I'd surprise him with some movies when he awoke from his nap." As the thief futilely attempted to share his alibi, Vickie ran out of the store. Struggling to find her breath, she explained, "It's okay, Peter. Sandra forgot to deactivate the Checkpoint tags. Uh, he's fine... Let him go..." Her embarassment was made obvious by her red cheeks. She'd just dispatched an elite squadron of trained officers to apprehend an innocent man. "Um, I apologize for the inconvenience," I said as I looked in the innocent man's direction. "What is your name, if I may ask?"
"Screw you," he retorted. "You inept, dollar an hour morons just ruined my vacation. I'll be leaving in a moment, once I eat the rest of my Quarter Pounder with Cheese." The three of us then went our opposite ways. Robert and I walked back to the golf cart; he recommended that I teach him how to manuever our patrol cruiser. He started the golf cart and began driving it rather skillfully. "You're doing well," I complimented. He looked over at me, smiling proudly. As he began to focus on driving again, an automobile's headlights blinded both of us. My hand instinctually grabbed the EZSECURE golf cart's hand rail. All I could hear was the twisting and tearing of metal; all I could see was an emblem resembling a silver star (one I'd never before observed), apparently lit by the reflection of the front parking lot's stadium lighting, as everything faded to black...
I smelled the air, ridden with the smell of garbage, as I eased my way into the EZSECURE golf cart with Robert, careful not to spill the hot coffee that I'd obtained at the McDonald's only minutes earlier. "This is my first time driving one of these things," he said with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. "It's okay, Robert," I assured him. "These aren't much different than a car. Make it quick, I want to get away from this dumpster." Unfortunately for my coffee and I, my new recruit had never obtained a driver's license nor driven anything other than a bicycle. I had just one of the most critical errors in the business: misinterpreting a potential threat to the well-being of Walmart's patrons as benign!
Just as Robert was attempting to enable the golf cart's electric motor, we received an urgent message via our walkie-talkie. "Peter! Somebody just left and didn't pay! Stop them!" It was the distress call of Vickie, the night cashier for register five. There wasn't a moment to lose. Our entire livelihood was at stake! I leapt into action without hesitation; this is what I was trained to do. "Robert, get in on the other side!" I exclaimed. The trainee, realizing that our situation was urgent, quickly transferred to the opposite side of the golf cart. In no time flat, we were dashing to the front door of our beloved Walmart. When we arrived, a man, presumably the suspect, was walking rapidly to his car. We pulled up along side of him. I would estimate that he was approximately 6'1" and 280 pounds. A bit chubby, but most likely capable of violence. "Stop, criminal!" I drew a can of mace instantaneously. The astonished thief quickly put his hands up and he dropped the bag containing the stolen goods. He knew that he'd been caught in the act. There was nothing he could do in order to gain the advantage in this situation.
The man spoke without any resemblance of a native Jasper citizen's accent. "I'm not a criminal, you old fogey." Sure you aren't, I thought to myself. I'd heard this line hundreds of times prior to this incident. He exhibited a glare that would have intimidated less seasoned veterans into submission. "I was buying DVDs for my son, moron. We're on our way to Louisiana and he was becoming restless, so I thought I'd surprise him with some movies when he awoke from his nap." As the thief futilely attempted to share his alibi, Vickie ran out of the store. Struggling to find her breath, she explained, "It's okay, Peter. Sandra forgot to deactivate the Checkpoint tags. Uh, he's fine... Let him go..." Her embarassment was made obvious by her red cheeks. She'd just dispatched an elite squadron of trained officers to apprehend an innocent man. "Um, I apologize for the inconvenience," I said as I looked in the innocent man's direction. "What is your name, if I may ask?"
"Screw you," he retorted. "You inept, dollar an hour morons just ruined my vacation. I'll be leaving in a moment, once I eat the rest of my Quarter Pounder with Cheese." The three of us then went our opposite ways. Robert and I walked back to the golf cart; he recommended that I teach him how to manuever our patrol cruiser. He started the golf cart and began driving it rather skillfully. "You're doing well," I complemented. He looked over at me, smiling proudly. As he began to focus on driving again, an automobile's headlights blinded both of us. My hand instinctually grabbed the EZSECURE golf cart's hand rail. All I could hear was the twisting and tearing of metal; all I could see was an emblem resembling a silver star (one I'd never before observed), apparently lit by the reflection of the front parking lot's stadium lighting, as everything faded to black...
I'm glad that Slashdot isn't doing anything for April Fools Day. All of the stories pertaining to this website seem perfectly believable today.
My weathered hand rested effortlessly on the blue EZSECURE patrol cart's steering device as the blinding incandescence of a Chevrolet SUV's headlights temporarily rendered me unable to see. Inconsiderate out-of-towners who never respected the law, probably. After it had vacated the premises and the slight glimmer of light eminating from the moon was all that remained, I realized that it was 11:30, the official beginning of my shift at the local Walmart. It would last until the early morning hours when the sun would rise and Brady would arrive to relieve me of my sworn duty: protect the Walmart and its patrons with my life. I would then return to my residence here in the relatively small town of Jasper, Texas to prepare for another patrol.
Fortunately, as of an hour later, my patrol might not longer evoke the ennui that it had for the past fifteen years. After fifty years of service, The EZSECURE Corporation was entrusting me with the prodigious task of training an aspiring security guard on site as my seventieth birthday present! I could hardly wait to meet my proteg. This was unquestionably the most exciting thing I had experienced since the Country Music Fair was held here in 1978. Ah, the memories... I digress.
I applied the brake gently and disabled the golf cart's electric motor. "Use that there break real gently now," my supervisor had told me years ago, when the golf carts were new. "If you don't, it'll get old quicker and cost EZSECURE more funds." At the time, I assured him that his advice was nothing more than an old wife's tale, but he threatened me in his most intimidating (and greatly accentuated) voice with demotion. I complied only because I had no intention of becoming a security camera operator again. The Walmart's warm air welcomed my frail, wrinkled body as I walked briskly through the automatic door, my black and gray hair blowing uncontrollably due to the amount of air travelling through the door. It smelled of plastic and hand cream, but even the smell of dead fish would be more pleasant than the utterly glacial conditions outside. "Morning Kevin," I said to the Home and Gardens cashier, who rarely, if ever, replied vocally to my greetings. I suspected that he must have been a hippie, because the twentysomething blond would reply with some sort of peace symbol using his middle finger, but this morning he was uncharacteristically fatigued. Perhaps he'd fallen victim to drugs, like so many other children today with deadbeat parents. Apparently he'd arrived only moments prior, for he hadn't even powered up his electronic cash register.
After exiting the pseudo-warehouse where Kevin was assigned, I continued walking until I reached the twenty-four hour McDonalds nestled safely inside of the Walmart. As always, I purchased an eight ounce cup of freshly brewed coffee. Not only would the caffeine assist me in remaining alert during the morning hours, but I believed the coffee's inherent warmth would assist me in carrying out my nightly tasks and, if necessary, defend Walmart from aggressors.
"Peter? Peter Geralds?" an unconfident voice queried from behind me. I drew a can of mace and turned expediously, nearly emptying the hot drink on my uniform in the process. The boy jumped back, realizing that I wasn't fond of surprises. EZSECURE had trained me to react with the mace in a millisecond.
"Yes sir, that's me," I replied politely as I placed the can of mace back into my pocket. This boy wasn't a threat. After all, would a malevolent criminal be wearing an EZSECURE uniform? Certainly not. "I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Robert. Manager Bob ordered me to report to you for training." The cadet wasn't exactly what I'd anticipated. He was lanky, probably around 6'2" in stature, with blonde hair that appeared quite dark under the dimmed flourescent lights overhead.
I stepped closer to him and held out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I told him with utmost confidence.
Shaking my hand, he hesitated to reply until we'd finished. "Likewise, Peter." I picked up my coffee again and we began walking back to the Home and Gardens area of Walmart. While we were in transit, he explained that he'd been born in Japan and that his parents had immigrated to the United States shortly thereafter. "If you're Japanese, why did your parents name you Robert?" I asked him inquisitively. It certainly intrigued me that he'd not been assigned a Japanese name, for many of them were quite interesting to a layman such as myself. Whereas I'd be more inclined to name my child "Bobby-Sue," people who weren't native Jasper residents often chose poetic, interesting names for their offspring.
"They were very worried that I wouldn't fit in with other children," he informed me. Logical, I thought. Robert spoke both English and Japanese fluently; perhaps he would be an invaluable negotiator if we were ever held hostage by Japanese terrorists.
The golf cart was barely twenty feet away. "Let's start your training," I suggested as I took another drink of my coffee. "Welcome to the security business."
My weathered hand rested effortlessly on the blue EZSECURE patrol cart's steering device as the blinding incandescence of a Chevrolet SUV's headlights temporarily rendered me unable to see. Inconsiderate out-of-towners who never respected the law, probably. After it had vacated the premises and the slight glimmer of light eminating from the moon was all that remained, I realized that it was 11:30, the official beginning of my shift at the local Walmart. It would last until the early morning hours when the sun would rise and Brady would arrive to relieve me of my sworn duty: protect the Walmart and its patrons with my life. I would then return to my residence here in the relatively small town of Jasper, Texas to prepare for another patrol.
Fortunately, as of an hour later, my patrol might not longer evoke the ennui that it had for the past fifteen years. After fifty years of service, The EZSECURE Corporation was entrusting me with the prodigious task of training an aspiring security guard on site as my seventieth birthday present! I could hardly wait to meet my proteg. This was unquestionably the most exciting thing I had experienced since the Country Music Fair was held here in 1978. Ah, the memories... I digress.
I applied the brake gently and disabled the golf cart's electric motor. "Use that there break real gently now," my supervisor had told me years ago, when the golf carts were new. "If you don't, it'll get old quicker and cost EZSECURE more funds." At the time, I assured him that his advice was nothing more than an old wife's tale, but he threatened me in his most intimidating (and greatly accentuated) voice with demotion. I complied only because I had no intention of becoming a security camera operator again. The Walmart's warm air welcomed my frail, wrinkled body as I walked briskly through the automatic door, my black and gray hair blowing uncontrollably due to the amount of air travelling through the door. It smelled of plastic and hand cream, but even the smell of dead fish would be more pleasant than the utterly glacial conditions outside. "Morning Kevin," I said to the Home and Gardens cashier, who rarely, if ever, replied vocally to my greetings. I suspected that he must have been a hippie, because the twentysomething blond would reply with some sort of peace symbol using his middle finger, but this morning he was uncharacteristically fatigued. Perhaps he'd fallen victim to drugs, like so many other children today with deadbeat parents. Apparently he'd arrived only moments prior, for he hadn't even powered up his electronic cash register.
After exiting the pseudo-warehouse where Kevin was assigned, I continued walking until I reached the twenty-four hour McDonalds nestled safely inside of the Walmart. As always, I purchased an eight ounce cup of freshly brewed coffee. Not only would the caffeine assist me in remaining alert during the morning hours, but I believed the coffee's inherent warmth would assist me in carrying out my nightly tasks and, if necessary, defend Walmart from aggressors.
"Peter? Peter Geralds?" an unconfident voice queried from behind me. I drew a can of mace and turned expediously, nearly emptying the hot drink on my uniform in the process. The boy jumped back, realizing that I wasn't fond of surprises. EZSECURE had trained me to react with the mace in a millisecond.
"Yes sir, that's me," I replied politely as I placed the can of mace back into my pocket. This boy wasn't a threat. After all, would a malevolent criminal be wearing an EZSECURE uniform? Certainly not. "I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Robert. Manager Bob ordered me to report to you for training." The cadet wasn't exactly what I'd anticipated. He was lanky, probably around 6'2" in stature, with blonde hair that appeared quite dark under the dimmed flourescent lights overhead.
I stepped closer to him and held out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I told him with utmost confidence.
Shaking my hand, he hesitated to reply until we'd finished. "Likewise, Peter." I picked up my coffee again and we began walking back to the Home and Gardens area of Walmart. While we were in transit, he explained that he'd been born in Japan and that his parents had immigrated to the United States shortly thereafter. "If you're Japanese, why did your parents name you Robert?" I asked him inquisitively. It certainly intrigued me that he'd not been assigned a Japanese name, for many of them were quite interesting to a layman such as myself. Whereas I'd be more inclined to name my child "Bobby-Sue," people who weren't native Jasper residents often chose poetic, interesting names for their offspring.
"They were very worried that I wouldn't fit in with other children," he informed me. Logical, I thought. Robert spoke both English and Japanese fluently; perhaps he would be an invaluable negotiator if we were ever held hostage by Japanese terrorists.
The golf cart was barely twenty feet away. "Let's start your training," I suggested as I took another drink of my coffee. "Welcome to the security business."
My weathered hand rested effortlessly on the blue EZSECURE patrol cart's steering device as the blinding incandescence of a Chevrolet SUV's headlights temporarily rendered me unable to see. Inconsiderate out-of-towners who never respected the law, probably. After it had vacated the premises and the slight glimmer of light eminating from the moon was all that remained, I realized that it was 11:30, the official beginning of my shift at the local Walmart. It would last until the early morning hours when the sun would rise and Brady would arrive to relieve me of my sworn duty: protect the Walmart and its patrons with my life. I would then return to my residence here in the relatively small town of Jasper, Texas to prepare for another patrol.
Fortunately, as of an hour later, my patrol might not longer evoke the ennui that it had for the past fifteen years. After fifty years of service, The EZSECURE Corporation was entrusting me with the prodigious task of training an aspiring security guard on site as my seventieth birthday present! I could hardly wait to meet my proteg. This was unquestionably the most exciting thing I had experienced since the Country Music Fair was held here in 1978. Ah, the memories... I digress.
I applied the brake gently and disabled the golf cart's electric motor. "Use that there break real gently now," my supervisor had told me years ago, when the golf carts were new. "If you don't, it'll get old quicker and cost EZSECURE more funds." At the time, I assured him that his advice was nothing more than an old wife's tale, but he threatened me in his most intimidating (and greatly accentuated) voice with demotion. I complied only because I had no intention of becoming a security camera operator again. The Walmart's warm air welcomed my frail, wrinkled body as I walked briskly through the automatic door, my black and gray hair blowing uncontrollably due to the amount of air travelling through the door. It smelled of plastic and hand cream, but even the smell of dead fish would be more pleasant than the utterly glacial conditions outside. "Morning Kevin," I said to the Home and Gardens cashier, who rarely, if ever, replied vocally to my greetings. I suspected that he must have been a hippie, because the twentysomething blond would reply with some sort of peace symbol using his middle finger, but this morning he was uncharacteristically fatigued. Perhaps he'd fallen victim to drugs, like so many other children today with deadbeat parents. Apparently he'd arrived only moments prior, for he hadn't even powered up his electronic cash register.
After exiting the pseudo-warehouse where Kevin was assigned, I continued walking until I reached the twenty-four hour McDonalds nestled safely inside of the Walmart. As always, I purchased an eight ounce cup of freshly brewed coffee. Not only would the caffeine assist me in remaining alert during the morning hours, but I believed the coffee's inherent warmth would assist me in carrying out my nightly tasks and, if necessary, defend Walmart from aggressors.
"Peter? Peter Geralds?" an unconfident voice queried from behind me. I drew a can of mace and turned expediously, nearly emptying the hot drink on my uniform in the process. The boy jumped back, realizing that I wasn't fond of surprises. EZSECURE had trained me to react with the mace in a millisecond.
"Yes sir, that's me," I replied politely as I placed the can of mace back into my pocket. This boy wasn't a threat. After all, would a malevolent criminal be wearing an EZSECURE uniform? Certainly not. "I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Robert. Manager Bob ordered me to report to you for training." The cadet wasn't exactly what I'd anticipated. He was lanky, probably around 6'2" in stature, with blonde hair that appeared quite dark under the dimmed flourescent lights overhead.
I stepped closer to him and held out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I told him with utmost confidence.
Shaking my hand, he hesitated to reply until we'd finished. "Likewise, Peter." I picked up my coffee again and we began walking back to the Home and Gardens area of Walmart. While we were in transit, he explained that he'd been born in Japan and that his parents had immigrated to the United States shortly thereafter. "If you're Japanese, why did your parents name you Robert?" I asked him inquisitively. It certainly intrigued me that he'd not been assigned a Japanese name, for many of them were quite interesting to a layman such as myself. Whereas I'd be more inclined to name my child "Bobby-Sue," people who weren't native Jasper residents often chose poetic, interesting names for their offspring.
"They were very worried that I wouldn't fit in with other children," he informed me. Logical, I thought. Robert spoke both English and Japanese fluently; perhaps he would be an invaluable negotiator if we were ever held hostage by Japanese terrorists.
The golf cart was barely twenty feet away. "Let's start your training," I suggested as I took another drink of my coffee. "Welcome to the security business."