Temp Work
Garras the bruiser bear fills in for a friend at a convenience store for one night shift. A gang of biker bulls show up. Garras has fun. The bulls do not. The fluorescent lights above the QuikMart counter buzzed and flickered across rows of energy drinks and stale pastries. Garras shifted his weight, leaning against a display of lottery tickets as he skimmed over the multitude of cigarette varieties that the gas station offered. His massive black-furred frame barely fit in the cramped space behind the counter that was just slightly below waist height, one clawed finger absently scratching at the worn leather of his eyepatch as the same goddamn country song cycled through the speakers for what had to be the tenth time that hour. The joint he'd smoked an hour ago still had him floating just enough to make the tedium bearable, his remaining eye half-lidded as he looked over the mosaic of green and red boxes. The night shift at this shithole truck stop was supposed to be easy money. ...