Chapter 5 : Tuesday’s Grocery Gauntlet (Part 2)
They say the supermarket is a sanctuary.
A pce of peace.
A haven of consumer bliss.
Those people have never been to SuperMart XL on a Tuesday during a full moon, while a woman wielding a sword stands on top of a checkout counter screaming about gluten-free tyranny.
---
“You dare mock me?” she shrieked, pointing the sword at a shelf-stocker who looked like he regretted every life choice.
“This establishment promised ancient grains,” she roared, “but all I see is quinoa lies!”
I was behind the cereal pyramid with Vera, crouched low and reevaluating everything.
“She has a sword,” I whispered.
“She has a katana,” Vera corrected. “That’s not just violence. That’s anime violence.”
I peeked over the box again. The woman swung the bde and sliced a hanging sign clean in half. A pstic banner fluttered down like a defeated fg.
I backed up. “Okay. New pn. We wait this out. Maybe she runs out of stamina.”
Vera snorted. “This isn’t a boss fight. She’s not governed by stamina bars.”
I raised a trembling finger. “Look into her eyes. That’s a stamina bar if I’ve ever seen one. Red, blinking, and full of bad decisions.”
---
Then she saw us.
“You! Coward man!” she pointed the sword straight at me.
“Me?”
“You wear your shame like armor. I respect that.”
“Oh. Uh. Thanks?”
“But I still must strike thee down!”
“I take it back!”
---
I don’t know what happened next. My vision tunneled. My legs acted on their own. Fight or flight kicked in, and I chose flight so hard I broke into a sprint—away from her, from Vera, from dignity itself.
I ran past the frozen pizzas, slid past the kombucha stand, and crashed into the cleaning products aisle, knocking over a pyramid of bleach bottles.
The sword woman followed, yelling something about the prophecy of the seventh aisle.
It was at that point I switched mental genres entirely.
---
“HARK!” I yelled, turning dramatically.
“Thou foul temptress of the gluten gods! I, Sir Darryl of House Rejected, shan’t let thee defile these sacred tiles!”
She blinked. “What?”
I tripped on a mop bucket.
My head smacked the wet floor sign and spun it like a Wheel of Misfortune.
She stepped forward to finish me off, but her foot hit the spilled bleach, she slipped, flipped, and—
CRACK.
Straight into a pile of discounted canned beans.
Silence.
Shocked, I looked at my trembling hands like I had just done a Hadouken.
A crowd began to gather.
One employee appuded.
A guy with a phone whispered, “Yo, that man just RPG narrated her into defeat!”
---
Vera ran over, out of breath. “Are you okay?!”
“I just… beat a sword dy. With mop water.”
She grinned. “You looked ridiculous.”
“I felt ridiculous. I started talking in Ye Olde English. I think I challenged her to a duel.”
“You saved people,” she said. “That’s kind of hot.”
Oh.
Oh?
Was this—was this happening?
---
We stepped behind the bread section, the world still chaotic but slightly quieter.
She was close now.
Very close.
“You know,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, “you might be a walking disaster, but you’re kind of brave in a cowardly way.”
“I’ll take that,” I breathed.
Our faces inched closer. The moment thick with rising heat, the tension of survival, the subtle aroma of freshly baked sourdough.
Then—
Something poked my thigh.
Firm.
Intentional.
It wasn’t her hand.
I froze.
She—no, he—froze too.
Eyes wide.
A beat of silence.
Then Vera cleared his throat, voice suddenly deeper, awkward. “Uh… so… there’s something I should’ve mentioned before now…”
My lips were still half-pursed.
“Oh,” I said, my soul leaving my body for a brief vacation. “So you’re not—”
“I’m Vera,” he said. “Short for Verastan. My mom was into old fantasy names.”
I nodded slowly. “Right. Cool. Yeah. Love that. Gender’s a construct. Sandwiches aren’t.”
I turned and walked out of the bakery aisle with quiet, rapid shame, holding my sandwich like a hostage.
---
Ten minutes ter, sword-dy was arrested. Vera gave me a thumbs-up from the back of a police cruiser. I gave him a confused smile and an accidental middle finger. I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling. Probably betrayal, embarrassment, and… slightly fttered?
The manager handed me a voucher for “One Free Sandwich” as thanks for “bravery and bleach-based pacification.”
---
I left the store holding that sandwich like it was my st remaining piece of heterosexual stability.
As I walked back, I saw Chadriguez’s motorcycle once again parked on my wn, like it was asserting dominance.
From inside the house came moans and the sound of smooth jazz.
Tuesday was ending.
I sighed, bit into the sandwich, and muttered, “Same time next week, huh?”
