The old man glares at the Self Checkout machine like he’s found the future that never wanted him in the first place. Turn to help him and a shopping cart runs over my toes. Beautiful youths kiss over a thirty Stone. She laughs when he bites her neck. Ask for ID and get a look of disdain. Everywhere in the store children scream.
Woke up today feeling like Armus. Abandoned evil space tar.
All the machines blink red. Customers whistle at me like a dog. Call me to help wipe their assholes.
Please God. Don’t make me kill Tasha Yar.
Ross Hargreaves lives and writes in Idaho.
–Art by Karamelo
–Art by Mariya Petrova-Existencia
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