Warehouses and Wherefores: A Pizzashill fanfic (Chapter 1)

Weaving heedlessly through traffic, Pizzashill cursed the incompetent rightoids that polluted the streets of Eastern Oregon with their late-model F-150s and ridiculous, oversized SUVs. "The fools!" he thought, "do they have any idea how shitty their gas millage is in a vehicle like that?"

Cutting off another Ford Explorer, he inwardly congratulated himself again on his shrewd acquisition of such an economical vehicle: His off-white 2002 Honda Civic had only 220,000 miles and moderate rust damage; the entire purchase price had been less than the monthly payment would be on the Range Rover he'd just swerved in front of. "Psh," he thought to himself, "as though rightards could comprehend a concept as sophisticated as interest rates. Why, at 4.95% APR on a $100,000 SUV, that means every month they'd be pissing away almost..." here he performed some quick mental arithmetic "...a fuckload of money," he concluded, reflecting warmly once again on his prudence.

bzzz

The mobile phone on his dashboard – a refurbished Samsung Galaxy S6 with a Boost Mobile SIM card – vibrated to indicate a new message. No time to check it, he was almost there. Accelerating into the final turn, he yanked the wheel hard to the left, ignoring the angry horns of the other drivers. Centrifugal forces – "Imaginary, just like sexism," @pizzashill reminded himself – tossed his phone across the dashboard and hard into the window with a loud thonk.

bzzz

The phone buzzed again as it dropped into the passenger footwell.

Slowing as he approached the enormous warehouse looming in front of him, an ominous, windowless concrete structure, Pizzashill ignored the arrhythmic rattling from his car's exhaust system and casually brandished his blue staff ID badge (that's right, blue for management) at the RFID scanner to his left. With a cheerful beep and a green light, the scanner registered his arrival and the automated barrier lifted to allow him to pass. As always at this moment, Pizzashill felt a momentary flash of triumph, "The King is back, baby" he mused silently.

bzzz

Yet another notification sounded from the damp mat on the floor of the passenger footwell. He was progressing deliberately through the ranks of stationary vehicles, judging their owners for their fiscal profligacy while cursing them for their fortuitous parking. "If only they'd give managers a designated lot," he thought to himself, not for the first time, "It's outrageous that I have to compete for spaces with these wagies who answer to me."

bzzz

Again! What could possibly be so important? "I swear to god, if I have to to explain to Poj one more time how to reset the robot vacuum, I'll have a half a mind to – no, no, not that. Remember, she's only a woman. She's doing the best she can with her limited capacities," he reminded himself, gently steering his thoughts away from domestic violence. Finally, he found a spot between two large pickup trucks and brought the Honda to a halt.

Switching off the ignition, he fumbled for moment in the footwell to recover his phone and glanced at the screen. Three text messages and a voice memo, all from @Poj.

"hey a bunch of strange men in black SUVs are on our street" @7:53 am

"oh my god, I think they have guns." @7:54 am

"Pizza, it's the actual glowies, they say they have a warrant" @7:57 am.

His heart sank in his chest. "Shit," he thought, "I always knew this day might come." Steeling himself, he pressed play on the voice memo. Poj's panic-stricken voice filled the car's beige, lightly stained interior:

"Oh my god! oh my god! I hope you get this message. The FBI are here, they're everywhere! There's so many guys, they're searching everything! They've taken the ham stocks. They took the Pokémon cards. I tried to get them to keep the door shut so Pudding didn't escape and they said, 'Ma'am, you're lucky we don't confiscate that tubby cat as evidence, too.' What's going on, Pizza? I'm so scared right now! What should I do?"

"Shit (again)," he thought a second time. So this really was it. After everything he'd worked for, everything he'd built, this was how his empire would come crumbling down?

No. Not like this. Not a chance, he wasn't going down that easy. Not Pizzashill.

"Don't say anything," he texted back, "Tell them you want a lawyer. Remember, glowies are just IRL jannies. Remember what we talked about that one night? I love you, babe."

Like a gladiator preparing to enter the arena, knowing full well he had almost no chance of coming out alive, he suited up: steel toed boots for the warehouse floor, neon high-vis vest, blue ID badge clipped to his lanyard. He jiggled the sticky door handle of the Honda three times to get it to open, and stepped out into the crisp spring air.

He strode toward the entrance of the building with purpose. Pizzashill knew he had only one card left to play, but damned if those dumb feds hadn't just activated his trap card.