Adam

Work’s been going alright. The only on the job injury is when my legs fall asleep, so I can’t complain. Low stress would be an overstatement. However, something happened last Thursday that’s worth sharing, so your put reading hats on.

It was a pale morning, and the rain began to gently darken the pavement. The overcast sky and cool weather was something I had been looking forward to for months; it was finally sweatshirt weather. I took a sip from my S.T.A.T. tumbler, full of lukewarm coffee. The woman in the booth next to me, my coworker, reminded me how early it was with a weary smile.

Ticket after ticket, I allowed the hospital staff (every one of them mimicking my coworker’s expression after their twelve hour shifts) to depart for home, and much needed rest. While it was hard to tell the number from where I was sitting, it was clear that the line of cars stretched far back into the ramp. I dictated whether or not these exhausted life savers would be allowed salvation after their long endeavors. I grinned at the dark humor of the thought as the line began to finish.

The final car wasn’t like the others. The rusting blue paint and lack of license plates stuck out in comparison to the caravan of well-to-do vehicles that had just come through. As it rolled closer, the goosebumps forming down my arms weren’t just from the foreign fifty degree weather. The machine in the booth that processes stubs couldn’t handle this one; it was long, sharp, and made of tempered steel.

With the knife at my throat, I peered down at the wrinkled face of my most belligerent customer to date.

“It seems I’ve forgotten my wallet, think you can spot me for this one?” he asked in a manner that oozed pure cliche.

“I think your permit’s expired!” I yelled in an equally cheesy manner, slamming the window shut on his arm and making him drop the Bowie Knife to the floor. In falling, the blade sliced lightly along my pant leg, and  my jeans began to absorb a thin line of blood as I grabbed my trusty red Streamline stapler and dove out of the booth.

This driver’s next ticket was equally as useless to the processing machine, but much louder, as a barrage of shots made deafening echoes bounce through the concrete structure.

Taking cover behind an orange traffic cone, I waited for a break in the gunfire. When the opportunity arose, I stood up from my Hollywood-adequate protection.

“Here’s your stapler, Milton!” and with that obscure reference, I flung my stapler at my assailant’s chest. With a resounding “CHA-CHICK,” the office device planted thin metal lightly into his heart.

“You haven’t…heard…the last of us,” he said with his dying breath, hinting at a sequel. I dug the actual parking stub out of his jacket and put it into the reader. He had been there under fifteen minutes.

“You’re good to go, have a nice day sir,” I said before collapsing from the blood loss.

This didn’t happen. Really, it was a boring week, and I decided to be creative. Again, this was a fictional story. I want to make it clear that my job is very safe, and that I didn’t kill a man with a stapler.