Here's a short story I wrote recently.  My fiction debut, if you will.  Why not post it on AN?

"The Market of Convenience"

So this man walks into a convenience store.  7-11.  Maybe.  He asks for a few lines of cocaine and a box of Cheez-Its.  Man behind the counter rolls his eyes.  Such a predictable order, especially in this part of town.  

The customer reminds the man behind the counter that there’s a 20% discount on cocaine this week.  Man nods his head.  He knows this shit, doesn’t need reminding.  Oh, wait, it might be 30%.  Customer shakes his head, points to a sign.  The sign says 10% off before 10 PM, 40% off from 10 till close.  Neither man knows the time.  It’s been some time since either man wondered about the time of day.  Customer shrugs.  He guesses it’s a few minutes before ten.  Man behind the counter agrees.  He’s the agreeable sort.  Not one to challenge authority.  And at this maybe 7-11, the customer is always right.  The signs on the door say so.  Well, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and this was either a Thursday or Friday.  The man behind the counter looked for his calendar.  It was missing as usual.  He thought it was a Thursday.

The customer pulled out the money for cocaine and Cheez-Its.  He only had Canadian currency, fuck.  This wasn’t Canada.  He didn’t know where this was, but he knew it wasn’t Canada.  He asked the man behind the counter where the ATM was.  He also asked him for his PIN number.  Man behind the counter laughed and helped the customer steal his money.  This was looking like it was going to be a good night.  The best Thursday night in quite some time, if it was Thursday.  It still might have been Friday.  If it was Friday, it wasn’t as good.  Too bad it wasn’t Wednesday.  It would’ve been the best Wednesday of his life.  He was especially glad it wasn’t Monday, though.  This would have been a bad Monday.  If it was Monday, the man would have killed himself.  He was happy it wasn’t Monday.

The customer withdrew 1,200 American dollars.  There was a reason he chose exactly 1,200.  He would not disclose this reason to the man behind the counter.  The man behind the counter laughed.  The customer wasn’t concealing anything from him.  He had worked too many hours at this maybe-7-11 not to know why the man chose 1,200.  He didn’t say anything to the customer, however.  If the customer knew that the man behind the counter knew the reason, he’d kill himself.  But as it was, the customer was quite happy.  His ignorance was bliss.  He counted aloud in increments of 1,200.  His voice got increasingly loud with each multiple, until he reached the climax of 12,000.  At that point, he began anew at 1,200.  The man behind the counter laughed and laughed.  This spectacle was nothing new, either.  Everyone reacted this way to their 1,200 American dollars.  Still, he enjoyed it each time.  He liked watching people celebrate their own misfortune.

The customer worked himself into a frenzy with his multiplication.  He calculated with increasing speed.  Twice he mistakenly went beyond 12,000; both times he caught himself at 14,400.  He was proud at his discipline.  He asked the man behind the counter if this was one of the best displays he’d ever seen.  The man behind the counter said they were all equally good.  It would be an injustice to previous thieves he’d had the privilege of serving to rank any one above the others.   The customer nodded in understanding, and went back to his counting.  He achieved a trance-like state.  4,800 was about the threshold at which his nirvana began.  The man behind the counter loved the number 4,800.  The only numbers he loved more were 7 and 11.  Maybe.

Finally, after 120 repetitions, the customer ceased his counting.  He collapsed in a heap, knocking over a few shelves of heroin as he fell.  He lay in ecstasy for a few moments.  The man behind the counter kept a watchful eye during this brief interval.  This was the only part of the ritual that was somewhat unpredictable.  The man behind the counter let out a sigh of relief when the customer chose the option that the man behind the counter preferred.  The customer announced his choice loudly: "silence."  The customer then rose rather quickly and gave the man behind the counter a high-five.  Well, he tried.  His poor coordination caused him to hit the man behind the counter in the face instead, knocking off his glasses.  The customer apologized by waving his hand.  He bent down to pick up the glasses for the man behind the counter.  He broke them instead.  The man behind the counter laughed uncontrollably.  The customer watched him laugh while he counted his money in silence.  He was uncomfortable with the laughter.  He leaned towards the counter, preparing to give the man a hug to get him to stop laughing.  The man behind the counter cowered underneath a mountain of Marlboros when he saw what the man intended to do.  He had built the fort of cigarettes for exactly this purpose, as protection from affection.  The customer paused, noticing the great monument for the first time.  He stood in awe for a few seconds, marveling at how indestructible the structure appeared.  Not even a handshake could penetrate the many carcinogenic layers that had been painstakingly stacked to filter out any attempt at human contact.  The customer wished to express his admiration.  He gathered his money, cocaine, and Cheez-Its, and left the store.  

The man behind the counter emerged from the shelter, once again victorious.