Comic Sans

At a convenience store, down the hill and across the street from the Temple to Mars …

Me and you are in the store. It has a smell to it. It is, to me, a nice smell. To you, it might be a bit of dirt. Like dirt and mud on commercial tile. You can feel the grit under foot. You can smell the sugar of the packaged processed shit. All this printed crap that passes for food. You can smell the cigarettes that get smoked in this place. It makes, for me, a warm atmosphere of nostalgia. And every convenience store in Soma has a hint of chlorine in the air, like we’ve come fresh from the poolside. If we haven’t gone properly to the pool yet, relax babe. We’ll get there. Not now, but sometime soon.

They have spinner racks. I don’t know if you noticed those. George Saunders seems to think that sort of thing is cheating or half-baked or something. Like if you reveal something was there that you didn’t say before because you need it now. That, or I misunderstood what he meant. Anyway, I knew it was there. I knew it was there because I was there, really there, of course, and then there again, oh, who knows how many times. And I knew it would be here tonight. Here we are. And there it is. [Ed. More below in the play procedures.]

On the spinner racks are books.

One is for paperbacks, and it’s the sort of shit you’d expect to find on one in a convenience store in a time and place like this. Danielle Steel. The Hot Blood Series, Deadly After Dark. Yeah, those, but there’s a Tabitha King book here, too. One on One, I think it is. Maybe that’s a surprise? Maybe not.

It’s not the paperbacks I’m interested in, I say, and nod at the comic books.

“Kamel Red Lights,” I say to the cashier.

They grab a pack of Kamel Reds and set them on the counter.

I tap them with a navy-polished nail. “Lights, cowboy.”

They say, “Oh,” then pick the Reds up, reslot them in the bin overhead, pull a different pack—Camel Lights, this time—and smack them down.

I sigh and facepalm myself.

You are perhaps looking at the comics. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. But if you do, you’re gonna see a shitload of X-titles, and then maybe one or two issues of Captain America or Avengers. Maybe a weirder, rarer book like Nth Man: The Ultimate Ninja. Or if you have a very good eye and are super lucky, The Transmutation of Ike Garuda. That’s a prestige format-only book, so it’s not realistic that it would be here, but. Weird shit happens in Soma.

“Kamel Red Lights, my man,” I say, having composed myself.

“Oh,” the cashier says again. They reslot the Camel Lights, look around the bin above, and then say, “We don’t have ‘em. Sold out.”

I lean over the counter, twist around, look up there, grab two packs, and put them on the counter.

“Oh,” the cashier says. “Sorry. Didn’t see those. No one ever gets those.”

I glare at them, toss a book of matches on top, then say, “Ring it up, bro.”

They do, and I pay for it, then either wait for you to buy your shit, or nod for you to follow me on out.

Outside, I pack the smokes, unwrap them, pull out the foil inserts—the detachable one first, then I carefully tear the back half off, a process I refer to as circumcision—take a cigarette out, stick it between my blackened lips, strike a match, and light ‘er up.

You see the familiar signs of addiction in my face as I inhale the smoke—first looking almost like I’m wincing, then tranquil, then smiling.

“I know, I know, I quit,” I say. “Don’t give me shit.”

Did you see the guy next to the door? He’s sitting there, back against the wall. He’s reading a comic book, the most important one in the universe—this universe, anyway. It’s called The Secret of Secrets, and it has the story of everything and nothing.

I start walking away—not back to the Temple, and not past the convenience store—but to a third point, south.

As we’re leaving, though, I do crane my neck and turn half my torso, point, and say with the cigarette flopping between my lips, “Back that way, past the store and down the hill—that way goes to The Sugarcane. Me and Foundry went down there the night Henna married Penguin. Or wait …” I pause speaking but keep walking—and smoking. “No, that was the other Teresa. Teresa Anderson. Who is me, kind of, but don’t worry about that. Just … forget I said anything. Not important. I did somehow already know the solution to Wendy’s murder that night, though. So I guess you and I did the damn thing.”

We carry on south, down the hill, toward Delta House. I really don’t want to go there, but we can if you insist. There’s always a lot happening. It’s on the right.

Otherwise, it’s up one more big hill, past the barbecue joint and the jail, and we’re back on Main Street.

Play procedures:

• If you agree with George that it’s bullshit, you can make a perception check to have noticed the spinner racks before I told you about them. If you haven’t assigned yourself a perception score, you may do so now.
• You may add any of the books or comics to your inventory except for The Secret of Secrets. You can also buy anything that you could reasonably find in a store like that, provided you have enough money and can carry it. I’ll spot you some cash, if you need it, and can help carry some, but I will bitch and moan about it by the time we’re going down the big hill.
• Delta House is a complex encounter site. It has a three full floors, several outdoor areas, including a tennis court, basketball blacktop, parking garage (dilapidated, though it may be), a pool, a hot tub, and a small garden in poor upkeep. The interior is a traditional Greek style, but not well-maintained. It smells of beer and testosterone. There is a dungeon with at least two levels underneath the house. I’m not sure what all is down there, so if you want to use a random dungeon generator, be my guest.