Battle Black Friday
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Learn to budget responsibly right from the start. She spends a little less and puts more into savings. Keeps her blood pressure low when credit score raises. She's cutting debt right out of her life. She tracks her cash flow on a spreadsheet at night. Boring money moves make kind of lame songs, but they sound pretty sweet to your wallet. BNC Bank. Brilliantly boring since 1865. Monday.

"Alright you pieces of scum sucking dog shit! We have reached our destination so shut the fuck up!" The guard with the Mossberg tactical shotgun yells as the bus comes to a stop in the parking lot. "Currently, you are the property of the federal prison system of this fine United States of America."

The second you step off this bus and place your foot on that scorching hot asphalt out there, you will become the property of the Big Mart Corporation. Am I understood?" The guard stares at the rows of inmates on the other side of the thick, reinforced mesh cage he and the bus' driver are stationed inside. "I asked you a fucking question!" he screams, racking the slide on the shotgun. An unused shell ejects and hits the driver in the temple,

Fucking hell, Morgan! Just get them off the damn bus. We've got a three hour drive, and I want to get home before the game starts tonight. Eat shit, Tucker. They have to give final consent, or the FPS is liable for any damage, mayhem, or casualties they cause. So what? You ever see a big mart after Black Friday? Ain't no one got time to sort that shit out. It's blood and guts as far as the eye can see.

"Will you shut the fuck up and let me do my fucking job? You think I don't have shit to do tonight too? I got that date with… You two lovebirds gonna keep whispering sweet fucking nothings to each other? Or are you gonna let us off this fucking bus?" Morgan and Tucker paused their conversation and swiveled their heads toward the owner of the question. "What was that? Inmate 6357894?" Morgan asks, his eyes narrowed, one lip curled. "Yeah, shut the fuck up, Action."

Damn it, Tucker, I got this! Well then get it if you got it! Why are you always like this? I swear to God! No, seriously guys, can we get off the bus or what? I gotta piss wicked bad!

A few of the other inmates verbally agree. "Inmate 9144521, stand your ass up!" Morgan bellows. "Me? What? You didn't make action stand up!" "Just stand the fuck up, Geordi," Tucker says with a sigh, then mutters. "Goddamn inmate trash. Always fucking up game night."

Inmate 9144521 gets to his feet. He's egged on by catcalls and wolf whistles. The man, Jordan "Geordie" Palladano, lifts both middle fingers high into the air until their tips brush the ceiling of the transport bus. The man next to him, still seated with a wide smirk on his face, chuckles. "Fuck you, Action," Geordie says, looking down at his friend. "You primed this pump."

Morgan shouts. "No, Morgan, I don't-" "You will address me as Mr. Morgan!" Geordi frowns.

"I thought Morgan was your first name?" "My first name? What is this? Fucking preschool? No, it is not my fucking first name. It'd be pretty funny if it was," Tucker says and snorts. "Fucking shut up, Tucker, or I swear to God. You keep swearing to God, Morgan, and he's gonna stop listening."

"Um, yeah. So I stood up like you asked," Geordi says. "And you will stay standing!" Morgan shouts. "Hey, we got the manager heading this way," Tucker says, nodding his chin to indicate a short, fat man waddling his way over to the bus. "He's packing. They're always packing," Morgan responds. "Retail ain't for the weak. I'll take work in the prison system any day." "No shit."

Jordy loudly clears his throat. "Ah, fuck off it's sit down inmate 9144521." Morgan growls as he reaches over and opens the bus' door. "I will be right back. But before I go, do you fucking worms consent to your transfer of ownership? Anyone who does not consent, then just fucking stay seated. The rest of you panty stains get up off your lazy asses and announce your consent."

The prisoners all stand and say versions of "Yeah, sure, whatever, fuck you Morgan!" The latter being the loudest and the most prominent response. Morgan steps off the bus and Geordi looks over at his benchmate. "You think this is worth it?" Action shrugs. "Beats rotting in prison the rest of my life." "Yeah, but guarding a big mart on Black Friday? I mean, we've all seen the vids on the cast. It's a fucking bloodbath."

But if we survive, then we ain't prisoners anymore. If we're lucky. Action tilts his head and side-eyes Geordi. You having second thoughts there, buddy? And fucking third thoughts and fourth thoughts! Geordi rubs his face, and his wrist shackles jangle and clank. I told you what happened to my mom when I was little! Yeah, you did. And boo fucking hoo. How many of these assholes on this bus you think don't have a dead mom story? Fuck you, Action!

"Get pissy all you want, but the reality is, Geordi, that we ain't got much of a choice." He wrinkles his face and looks around then leans closer. "They're having rations starting next week. I hear we're the last Black Friday batch from the prison. Next year, everyone will either be starved to death or too weak to volunteer." "Fucking shit! Can they do that?" Action rolls his eyes. "Right, right. Of course they can do that. So I guess we gotta survive this shit no matter what, huh?"

Morgan steps back onto the bus before Action can reply to Geordi. "Your transfer arrangements have been finalized, you little cum-drips. The moment your bare feet touch pavement, you will no longer be my fucking problem. So get fucking moving." The rear door of the bus clangs open, and the inmates all turn and stare at the helmets and mirrored visors that greet them. Six people stand there in full black tactical gear, M4 carbines at the ready.

Their faces are obscured by their helmet's visors, but they each sport a patch on their chests with their names on it. "Off the bus, inmates," the person with Hollister on his chest orders. "You will not be asked again," then he turns to the others and says, "Sentries, prepare to secure the new meat." The others, the sentries, all nod and grip their M4s tighter as they widen their stances.

There's a pause, then the first set of inmates shuffles over to the door and lowers themselves off the bus. It isn't easy with wrist and ankle manacles, but they manage to overcome the problem. Most everyone is used to having to get around while manacled. It's just part of prison life. As soon as the bus is empty, Morgan hurries down the aisle and yanks the rear door closed. He latches it and gives a little wave.

Then the bus is pulling away and navigating the pre-made course of concrete barriers and razor wire that makes up the Big Mart parking lot. The inmates watch the bus pull out onto the road. Once gone, all eyes turn to the short, fat man who has appeared in the middle of the sentries. "Good morning, new Big Mart employees," the man says with a jolly voice and a happy smile. "I am Manager Shiva."

I am the end-all, be-all of everything and anything that is Big Mart here at store number 463. What I say is law, and there is no argument. If you would like to lodge a complaint with corporate, please note that the cost of lodging a complaint with corporate is a bullet through your temple. Hollister?

The sentry named Hollister places the barrel of his M4 to the temple of a random inmate and pulls the trigger, sending brain and bones splattering across the faces of the inmates closest to the unfortunate target. "Let that be an example to all of you that I am not someone who messes around. Do as you were told to do and you will fare about as well as can be expected. Mouth off once and you will suffer the same fate as…" He leans over to read the corpse's jumpsuit.

"Inmate 655339, Chico," Action says. "What was that?" Manager Shiva asks, not unkindly, as he looks about for the source of the interruption. "His name was Chico," Action says and raises a hand, "in case you needed to know." "Ah, Chico, yes, thank you," Manager Shiva says. "I am sure he will be missed."

"Nah, he was a kiddie fiddler. We all hated him," Action says. "Is that so? And what's your name?" Manager Shiva asks, working his way through the crowd of inmates toward Action and Geordi. He makes no attempt to hide that he is placing his hand on the butt of the very large revolver he has holstered to his right hip. When he gets right up close to Action, who towers over the man by a good foot at least, he asks the question again. "What's your name, new employee?" Action.

"Is that so? Your mama named you Action?" "Never knew my mama." "I'm sure you did not." Action shrugs. "Well, Action, you seem like a man with drive. I am going to make you first lead of Team One. How does that sound?" "Do I get my own office and expense account?" "You get an extra cup of coffee at breakfast. Will that work for you?" "Cream and sugar?" "Of course." "Deal." Manager Shiva grins at Action, then reaches up and pats the man on the arm.

I like you, Action. Keep it that way and you might survive to Saturday. The two stare at each other for a moment, then the short, fat man turns on his heel and walks off, the sentries parting for him immediately. Alright, Sentry Hollister here will show you do your bunks. Do as you were told and you live. Give any of my people any grief and they have carte blanche to completely fuck you up in any way they see fit.

Enjoy your day, get settled, pray for forgiveness, and be ready to start training at 0400. Have a big mart day, everyone!" He lifts an arm and waves, then marches off, navigating the concrete barriers and razor wire until he's at the front of the huge, big box retailer. "Let's go, losers," Hollister says. "Nice and easy, so no one gets accidentally shot."

Action and Geordi share a look. Both shrug, then begin the slow shuffle toward the building.

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Tuesday

"Jesus," Geordi says, as the new Big Mart employees stand in a tight group and look around each other to see what the Long Isle holds. "What the shit is this?" "Yeah, where are the guns and shit?" Action asks. Hollister laughs, but the new employees don't need him to lift his visor to show that his mirth doesn't reach his eyes. "Do you actually think that corporate would allow any of you reprobates to have access to firearms?"

"But won't the customers have guns?" a new employee asks. "You bet your pretty little reamed asshole they will," Hollister replies. "And we do not call them customers, not after the Retailer Rights Act was passed. They are discount-driven insurrectionists, or DDIs, and they will have every type of weapon known to man. What they will not have are shopping permits, at least not legitimate ones issued by the state.

"And without a permit on your person, you are not allowed within the doors of this Big Mart or any Big Mart. Those who attempt to breach these doors without a permit will forfeit their lives, no exceptions." "That include kids?" someone else asks. "No exceptions means no exceptions."

There's some grumbling amongst the new employees, but it dies quickly. "What you are allowed to choose from is a varied assortment of melee weapons. We have bladed weapons, spiked weapons, weapons strictly for bludgeoning. There are chains, axes, spears, and even boards with nails in them. You are welcome to touch and test any and every weapon out." "Test? How the fuck do we test them? You gonna volunteer to be my target?" A third new employee asks. "Nope.

"Nope, no need to," Hollister says as he steps into the aisle and plucks a three-foot-long pry bar from a shelf. "I know how it works, do you?" Hollister tosses the pry bar into the crowd, and Action catches it easily. No one moves, not even the sentries. Action turns to face the man who asked the question.

"Sorry, Gabe," he says then embeds the hooked end of the pry bar into Gabe's forehead. The man screams as Action yanks with all his strength, tearing the front of Gabe's skull right off. The screaming stops and Gabe's lifeless body collapses to the concrete floor. "I'll take it," Action says and grips the pry bar tighter, his eyes scanning the group for retribution from one of Gabe's friends. No one moves. Hollister clears his throat.

"That's how you test a weapon. Good job. Anyone else need a test drive?" All eyes go to Gabe's corpse as it bleeds out on the concrete. Feet shuffle, putting distance between them and the quickly spreading bloody pool. "Alright, then choose a weapon or two and meet me outside. We run drills from now until noon, at which point you will be served a lunch of oatmeal and grubs." The grumbling erupts again, but a little more urgent this time.

Action gives Geordi a nudge, and the two of them push past the others and into the weapons aisle.

With the bloody pry bar in his hand, no one complains about action going first. "Albert, interesting," Hollister says as Geordi leaves the aisle, gripping a long staff with an axe at the end. He also has a whip clutched in his other hand, but Hollister only sneers at that. Action returns with a short sledgehammer, maybe two feet at most.

"No blades?" Alistair asks. "I'll collect them as they fall," Action says. Alistair nods. "Good man. Now get your ass outside." With the seal broken, the rest of the new employees swarm into the aisle and begin choosing, and arguing over the shelves of available weapons. No one decides to test their choices out. Action glances at the whip in Geordi's hand. "That shit can get turned on you fast. I used to break bulls," Geordi says. "You did?"

Nah, but I saw it on a vid. Looked cool. How hard can it be? Fucking hell, my arms are sore! Yep, same. Supposed to hit 90 tomorrow. Might even be 100 by Friday.

At least it's cooler than last November, Geordi says. You two, less talking and more cleaning, the sentry shouts. His M4 aimed at the two men. Now, on it, boss, Action says, and shoves away from the wall. He studies the gore that drips from the razor wire. Not sure if I agree with their live, full contact training methods, but at least we made it.

"I heard a sentry say they need most of us dead, or they won't have enough rations to feed all the employees through the holiday season," Geordi replies. "Makes sense," Action replies as he double-checks the fit of the large rubber gloves that stretch up past his elbows. Then he grabs a nice hunk of intestines hanging from a concrete barrier and carefully plucks them off the razor wire, keeping them from falling to the ground. He stuffs the intestines into a black plastic bag he's been provided with.

But I would have liked to keep some of those morons as cannon fodder. You know what I mean? Geordi gags a little as he stuffs a severed foot into his own black plastic bag.

Yeah, I guess. Not sure how much difference it's gonna make. That sentry, Nelson, says they expect close to a thousand DDIs to show up this year. Maybe more. Most of them will turn on each other before they get halfway through the barrier maze. Still not liking the odds. There's what? A dozen of us left? And how many sentries have you counted? Real sentries or fake sentries? What does that mean?

Some of them are putting on new name tags, so it looks like there are more than there actually are. That one chick, Brennan, has a slight limp. She put on a name tag saying she was Kincaid, but she's still limping. Don't fool me a bit." "Fooled me? Shit, you think there's only the six of them?" "Not sure. Could be as many as ten, but I haven't gotten a solid head count. But they sure as fuck want us to think there are more." Geordi straightens up, pinching a peeled off face between his fingers.

Who fucking does this? We're training for battle, not training to skin raccoons and shit. God, I could go for some raccoon stew right now. You remember how good that used to be before they were hunted to extinction? We were a possum family. My dad couldn't catch a raccoon to save his life. They were smart fuckers. Shut the fuck up and clean, assholes! Geordi and Action turn and look toward the roof where a gun emplacement holds a double-barreled .50 caliber turret.

A sentry is leaning over the sandbags surrounding the turret, his visor gleaming down at the two men. "Sorry," Action says, and waves and gets back to work, scraping skin off concrete. "Fucking prick." "What was that, bitch?" The sound of a lever being pulled back and the turret being charged echoes across the parking lot. "Thank you for the privilege to work for Big Mart. That's what I fucking thought." The sentry leans back and is lost from sight behind the big gun.

Geordi and Action continue to clean quietly. Then their attention is ripped from their work as a blood-curdling scream pierces the day's silence. A new employee, completely naked, is shoved out of the main entrance, blood streaming down the insides of his legs. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" The man is crying. He tries to turn and plead, his fists clenched to his chest. But the two sentries behind him aren't having it. They shove him until his back is pressed against razor wire,

"I just wanted it for after, folks!" Hollister shouts as he appears from this door. Something is resting in his palm. He holds it up for all to see. "This man thought he could get away with stealing a precious and rare item by smuggling it in his keister!" "Ah shit, is that Scuttle's? What did he do now?" Geordi asks quietly. "Looks like a candy bar," Action replies.

"That stupid fucking fool!" "This is a limited edition Easter Snickers bar!" Hollister shouts, holding his palm up higher. "It would take me three months of work and overtime to afford this baby, and employee number 1526773 here thought he could take it for free!" Hollister nods, and the two sentries raise their weapons. Scuttles tries to plead again, but his words are lost in the roar of gunfire.

The new employee is terminated from Big Mard employment with extreme prejudice. "You two, clean this shit up!" A sentry yells at Geordi in action. "You got it, boss!" Action says. "And if anyone wants to brave the blood and shit, this can be yours!" Hollister says, and lets the soiled candy bar drop from his palm. A couple of new employees twitch in his direction, but when he places his boot on the bar and presses down slowly, everyone freezes. "Enjoy!"

Action and Geordi hurry over to what's left of Scuttle's body and get to cleaning. "How'd the fucker get the keycard to the candy cabinet?" the sentry named Victor asks Hollister as they walk inside. "Fuck if I know," Action and Geordi hear Hollister start to say, but the rest of his reply is lost as the front doors slam shut and lock, the seal hissing into place. Geordi glances over at the smashed candy bar. "You think it's still good?"

Action snorts and only shakes his head. Yeah, you're right. Too much shit and blood to clean. Even for lowlifes like us.

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Thursday afternoon. "Happy Thanksgiving, all of you!" Manager Shiva announces as the new employees are led to a long table, set up just on the other side of the rows of self-checkout scanners. "Sit, sit. Today you will be served like real human beings. Is there turkey?" a new employee asks. "Shut the fuck up, Carlisle." Action snaps. "No, no. It's a valid question. And the answer is... yes." Manager Shiva crows.

Everyone stares at the table. "Those are pigeons," Geordi whispers to action. "No shit. We have quite a feast set out for you, so take a seat and dig in!" Manager Shiva exclaims. In addition to the platters of very pigeon-looking turkeys that dot the table every couple of feet, there are bowls of greens, bowls of yellows, and bowls of whites, with gravy boats of browns set here and there.

Everyone stands still, unsure of what they are being offered. A gunshot sends the new employees cowering. "Sit your asses down and eat!" Manager Shiva roars, his arm raised and a smoking pistol clutched in his hand. "Be fucking thankful!" The new employees sit, and soon they are passing bowls of different covered mush around, plopping clumps onto their plates, and liberally pouring brown goo from the gravy boats over the multicolored piles of mush.

The pigeons go untouched for a second before Action notices Manager Shiva's face turning red with rage. "Always loved Squab," Action says as he plucks a tiny thigh and leg from a platter and sets it next to his piles of mush.

He snags a wing and holds it up, shaking it in Manager Shiva's direction. "Thanks for the grub, boss!" Action tears into the tiny wing, one eye on the manager. After a moment, Manager Shiva takes a seat at the head of the table, watching everyone devour their food. "The sentries aren't eating," Geordi comments between bites of yellow and green. "More food for us," Action says, just before stripping all the flesh off the pigeon wing. "And we're gonna need it." Thursday night.

Geordi's mouth feels like tar paper and his head is pounding. He opens his eyes, blinking slowly as he looks around. "Oh good, you're awake," Action says, from right next to Geordi's left shoulder. "What the fuck, man? Did we get drugged?" Geordi asks, his words like rocks in his mouth. "Yeah." "Why?" "Probably to keep us from changing our minds. We outnumber the guards." "Damn, that's cold."

"Yeah, well, I can't exactly blame them," Action says and stands up. He's a little wobbly but steadies himself, then points out at the parking lot. "Have a look." It takes a moment for Geordi to get his legs under him and be able to stand without swaying. Once he has the standing part under control, he rubs his eyes and stares in the direction Action is pointing. "Fuck," Ned's putting it mildly. "How many are there?"

A lot more than a thousand, that's for fucking sure. I'd say closer to three than two. What time is it? Before Action can answer, a bullhorn squawks from up on the roof. The two men crane their necks and look up at the source. All right, people! The voice booms, and both Action and Geordi realize the announcement is not for them. Listen the fuck up! Hollister? Geordi asks. Sounds like it.

The crowd of thousands that continues to grow with every minute all pause their conversations and preparations. They stand at the outer edge of the parking lot, blocked by a series of randomly firing lasers, which keeps anyone from spotting a pattern and slipping by early. One by one, two by two, faces turn toward Big Mart. Fucking rules, Hollister bellows, his amplified voice stinging the ears of those close to the building. Per federal law,

The lasers will go cold. You will have 24 hours to navigate the lot and attempt to reach the store. If any of you make it past our security measures and our personnel, you're granted the privilege of shopping at the store for exactly 60 minutes. If you attempt to stay long,

Hollister's voice is drowned out by the crowd shouting. Hollister says, Many jeers and insults are thrown Hollister's way from the crowd.

One last thing! If you are on Big Bart property after midnight Friday, if a single soul has so much as a toe touching the pavement at 12 on Saturday morning, you will say it with me now! The crowd boos and hisses. Ah, fuck you too! You're all gonna die anyway! The crowd's conversations become an angry buzzing. Why do I have the feeling Hollister just made it worse for us? Geordi asks. Because he did. Great.

Jordy goes to sit down then pauses. He narrows his eyes, straining to see detail past the massive spotlights and Klieg lights that are set up all around the parking lot. "Does that guy have a fucking flamethrower?" Jordy asks. "The one off to the left." "Yup, and there's another guy who has trained dogs. You can hear them barking every once in a while when the crowd noise dies down."

Dogs? Someone has dogs? Jesus. I'm surprised the crowd hasn't killed them, cooked them, and eaten them. Can't remember the last time I saw a living dog. I think some people tried. Didn't go well. I heard them screaming before you woke up. I'm betting they are very big dogs.

"Alright, new employees!" Alistair booms down from above. "You heard the rules for the plebes. They are utter bullshit, as you know. No one will be allowed through these doors. We only tell them that so they try to kill each other along the way." "That's so fucking low," Geordi says.

"Capitalism, man. Worst cult ever," Action replies. "But what is true is that if you manage to live through the next 24 hours, you will become a permanent employee of Big Mart and receive all the benefits and perks that come with that. Anyone who does not want to be a part of this, you are welcome to leave now." Surprisingly, a scrawny man named Traeger stands up and starts walking through the barriers.

A shot rings out and his head explodes. "I said you can leave! I didn't say you could live!" Hollister announces with a chuckle. "Alright, five minutes to the shitshow! Say some prayers and kiss your asses goodbye, kids!" Action and Geordi watch and wait. They grip their weapons, constantly wiping the sweat from their palms as they each try to count down in their heads.

When the lasers stop suddenly and over 3,000 people rush into the parking lot, Action says, "See you on the other side, buddy. Let's fucking hope so," Geordi replies. Friday, midnight to midnight. Oh god, where's my arm? Mommy! Stop that surge over there! Eat the rich! Eat the rich! I'm out of... ah! Eat duck!

Gotcha, bitch! No! Please no! I just want... Brag out! My legs! I can't find my legs! Hey, no cutting! Fuck you! No, fuck you! How's this for cutting, huh? Huh? Cut your fucking head off! You're getting too close! Reloading! Jordy, drop! Fuck! On your six! On your six! No fucking way are you getting past me, motherfucker! Action! Two o'clock! I see them!

"Fucking pigs! I'll rape your mouths when I… Where's my mommy? I'm almost out of propane! Someone hand me that! Ah, motherfucker! Motherfucker! Get it off my back! Get it off my…" Saturday, 2:35 in the morning. "How's your buddy?" Hollister asks, walking up to Action, his tactical gear covered from head to toe in blood and gore and scorch marks. "He breathing?" "No," Action says, seated with his back up against the big marked wall.

Geordi's corpse right beside him. Took some sharpened rebar to the heart. "I don't think he even knew what was happening," Hollister nods. "And you? You alive?" "I'm breathing, ain't I?" "Not the same thing." Action thinks for a moment then nods. "Yeah, I'm alive." "Good to hear." "Hey, that shit that Manager Shiva said about me being a team lead, um, that never happened. Never did get my second cup of coffee." "He was making fun of you."

That's what I figured, but thought I'd mention it. Ain't enough of us left to be led of much anyway. Us? You survived, didn't you? You heard what I said, right? I thought it was a bunch of horseshit like what you told the DDIs. Nah, we have too many slots to fill as it is. We aren't gonna turn down motherfuckers like you. Like me? Sons of bitches who just won't fucking die! Action drugs. It's what I do. Been doing it since I was born.

Hollister holds up a gloved finger, then realizes that the glove material is singed and ripped, leaving not much of a glove left. He strips off the remnants and tosses them aside. "Wait here, don't go anywhere. Where the fuck would I go?" Action asks, but Hollister is already jogging away. When he returns, he throws a pile of gear at Action, who barely manages to catch it all.

"They call you Action, right?" Hollister asks, flipping on a new glove. Or different glove. From the stains coating the material, it is certainly not new. "Yeah, that's what they call me," Action replies, sorting through the tactical gear. "Well, not anymore," Hollister says. "What's the name on the vest?" Action sifts through the gear and finds the vest. "Uh, Victor. Then you're the new Victor. Welcome to Big Mart, Victor."

The man walks away, laughing his head off before Action, now Victor, can answer. When Action gets his gear sorted and puts it on, he realizes he's missing one item.

Motherfucker took my glove, he mutters to himself. Then he spins around as a loud noise fills the air. High above, it's red running lights piercing through the cloud cover. A helicopter begins to descend toward the roof. Real shoppers are here, folks. So no one is allowed inside until they leave.

Hollister bellows from halfway across the parking lot, the bullhorn pressed to his mouth. Let's get this place cleaned up before the sun rises and starts to roast these bodies. Gonna be over a hundred today. Action can't see the helicopter land from his vantage point down by the parking lot, but he can hear it. As the engine is killed and the rotors power down, Action looks down at the body of his friend.

"I had a feeling that whip was a dumb choice," he says before sliding his recently used and smelling of vomit tactical helmet over his head. Then he strides off into the parking lot, a roll of black plastic bags in the hand without the glove, ready to be a dutiful Big Mart employee.

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