THE MUMMY RETURNS! WITHOUT A RECEIPT!
by Danger_Slater
"I need...to return..." the mummy wheezes in a low, grainy voice that sounds like a whisper under the water of the techno-bass thump. With a decaying hand, he places the shopping bag onto the counter.
The girl behind the register snaps her gum. "Was there anything wrong with your item, sir?" she asks lazily as she dumps out the bag. Pop goes her Hubba-Bubba.
"Jeans don't...fit right..." the mummy gurgles through labored breaths, "Not...skinny enough..."
"Well, we just got a new style in yesterday. The ultra-mega-radical-diabolical-incomprehensible-unrelentant-infallible-ultimate-ludicrous-ridiculous-unheard of-super-duper-duper skinny. Perhaps you'd like to exchange?" she suggests.
Snap. Pop. Chew-chew-chew.
"No..." says the mummy, "Want...money back..."
"Okay whatever," she rolls her eyes, "I'm just gonna need to see a receipt."
"Don't have...a receipt..." the mummy burbles, "Must have...misplaced it...somewhere..."
"You don't have a receipt!" the girl exclaims, swallowing her gum. Gulp. She shoves her hands in her pockets and pulls out an inhaler, taking a long pull before she can regain her composure. Her face is beet-red and tears stream down her cheeks. "You'll have to excuse me," she says, "It's just - how could you even THINK about returning an item without a receipt? Don't you know the store policy?"
"I don't understand...what the...big deal...is..." says the mummy, "Can't you...just look...up my credit card...on your computer...or something...?"
"Sir, we have a store policy," she says, pointing to a microscopic sign underneath a pile of clothing, "NO RETURNS WITHOUT ORIGINAL RECEIPT," she reads it to him.
"Please..." the mummy gasps, "Can't you just...make an...exception...?" Liquified brains leak from the corpses nose. Next to the jeans a puddle of yellow viscera grows. The mummy turns to the lady behind him, "Can you...believe this...?" he gurgles, searching for some solidarity.
The lady just shrugs.
"I demand to speak...to your...manager..." the mummy huffs, pounding a sinewy hand against the countertop. A dust cloud of stink swirls like a nebula from his heated bandages. The girl behind the counter picks up a walkie-talkie.
"Doug, up front, please. I've got a 'dissatisfied customer.'"
Moments later approaches Doug, the manager.
"What seems to be the problem?" asks Doug. He looks way too young to be the manager, a case not helped by his choo-choo train footsie pajamas.
"The problem is...I want to return...these jeans...and she...won't let me..."
"Well, do you have a receipt, sir?" asks the manager.
"No..." the mummy goes, "I've explained this...I...lost it..."
"Well, we have a store policy..."
"I know...the goddamn...store policy..." the mummy hisses. One of his eyeballs falls out and rolls away. A few teeth go clattering after it.
"Sir, we're trying to run a business here" the manager replies, "If I just let every 3000 year old cadaver come in here and do whatever the hell they wanted, we'd probably all be zombie food by now."
"How dare you...call me...a zombie..." the mummy har-umphs.
"Okay, look, nobody's calling anybody a zombie," the manager backtracks.
"I have...been shopping here...for over...a millenia...and I've spent...a lot...of money...in this place..."
"Sir, we've only been open since 1998," the manager says.
A spider crawls out of a fissure in the mummy's skull. "Refund me now...or I...will curse...you..." he threatens.
"It's policy, sir," Doug says, "My hands are tied."
The mummy lowers his head and his empty eyesockets glow red. "So...be...it..." he snarls, raising his skeleton arms to the ceiling. Reciting some kind of ancient incantation ["Death Shall Come...on Swift Wings...to Him Who Disturbs...the Peace of the King...!"] the roof to the store suddenly explodes and a swarm of locusts invade the shop. Insects cover every inch of merchandise. Terrified shoppers scream and wail. The manager Doug cries out for help, but the pestilence consumes his voice before it can even leave his mouth. Red, fleshy skin globs are torn from the register girl's milquetoast facade - her face a smear of boogers and blood. And through the haze of antenna and legs, a sliver of moonlight breaks through the living air. The manager looks at it with wide, desperate eyes. Thick beads of Crisco slime vomit forth from his pores. He falls to his knees and retches. Hair sprouts from the nape of his neck. His legs buckle backwards. Fangs. Paws. Ears. Fur. He stands up - nine fee tall - born feline anew, the manager mews.
The locusts scatter in the same frenzy they descended. The surviving shoppers reach for their scattered coupons. The mummy looks to the manager with terror.
"Oh my..." the mummy exclaims, "Bastet...you've...returned...!"
"Hello, mummy," says the cat-god Bastet.
"I meant...no disrespect...my Lord..." the mummy genuflects, uncomfortably creaking on disintergrated bone, "These jeans...just didn't...fit right..."
"The jeans are just fine, mummy. Perhaps it is you who doesn't fit them. Perhaps your soul is not ready to pass on to Aaru and join Osiris on his journey around the sun."
"Please...my Lord...I only wanted...my money...back..."
"You disappoint me, mummy," goes Bastet, "You have not earned you place in the Kingdom; for the weight of your heart is greater than the feather of your mind. By Ammit's jaw, you are hearby banished from this Store of Earthly Delights, forced to wander the mall without rest or asylum, until your soul can be cleansed of all indiscression."
"Please...Bastet...I am...worthy..." the mummy pleads, "I am...worthy...I was...once King...!"
"Go, before I'm forced to call security," the cat-god commands, turning away from the mummy to refold a stack of vee-neck tees.
The mummy hangs his head and steps out into the mall. Doomed forever to roam these halls until his soul could be pure enough to find its way to Aaru. He looks at the other shopping bag around his wrist. If he could just get Old Navy and return this fleece cardigan, perhaps then, he could finally rest in peace.
THE END.
- - -
Danger_Slater is the world's most flammable writer! He is your favorite writer! He loves you!
by Danger_Slater
"I need...to return..." the mummy wheezes in a low, grainy voice that sounds like a whisper under the water of the techno-bass thump. With a decaying hand, he places the shopping bag onto the counter.
The girl behind the register snaps her gum. "Was there anything wrong with your item, sir?" she asks lazily as she dumps out the bag. Pop goes her Hubba-Bubba.
"Jeans don't...fit right..." the mummy gurgles through labored breaths, "Not...skinny enough..."
"Well, we just got a new style in yesterday. The ultra-mega-radical-diabolical-incomprehensible-unrelentant-infallible-ultimate-ludicrous-ridiculous-unheard of-super-duper-duper skinny. Perhaps you'd like to exchange?" she suggests.
Snap. Pop. Chew-chew-chew.
"No..." says the mummy, "Want...money back..."
"Okay whatever," she rolls her eyes, "I'm just gonna need to see a receipt."
"Don't have...a receipt..." the mummy burbles, "Must have...misplaced it...somewhere..."
"You don't have a receipt!" the girl exclaims, swallowing her gum. Gulp. She shoves her hands in her pockets and pulls out an inhaler, taking a long pull before she can regain her composure. Her face is beet-red and tears stream down her cheeks. "You'll have to excuse me," she says, "It's just - how could you even THINK about returning an item without a receipt? Don't you know the store policy?"
"I don't understand...what the...big deal...is..." says the mummy, "Can't you...just look...up my credit card...on your computer...or something...?"
"Sir, we have a store policy," she says, pointing to a microscopic sign underneath a pile of clothing, "NO RETURNS WITHOUT ORIGINAL RECEIPT," she reads it to him.
"Please..." the mummy gasps, "Can't you just...make an...exception...?" Liquified brains leak from the corpses nose. Next to the jeans a puddle of yellow viscera grows. The mummy turns to the lady behind him, "Can you...believe this...?" he gurgles, searching for some solidarity.
The lady just shrugs.
"I demand to speak...to your...manager..." the mummy huffs, pounding a sinewy hand against the countertop. A dust cloud of stink swirls like a nebula from his heated bandages. The girl behind the counter picks up a walkie-talkie.
"Doug, up front, please. I've got a 'dissatisfied customer.'"
Moments later approaches Doug, the manager.
"What seems to be the problem?" asks Doug. He looks way too young to be the manager, a case not helped by his choo-choo train footsie pajamas.
"The problem is...I want to return...these jeans...and she...won't let me..."
"Well, do you have a receipt, sir?" asks the manager.
"No..." the mummy goes, "I've explained this...I...lost it..."
"Well, we have a store policy..."
"I know...the goddamn...store policy..." the mummy hisses. One of his eyeballs falls out and rolls away. A few teeth go clattering after it.
"Sir, we're trying to run a business here" the manager replies, "If I just let every 3000 year old cadaver come in here and do whatever the hell they wanted, we'd probably all be zombie food by now."
"How dare you...call me...a zombie..." the mummy har-umphs.
"Okay, look, nobody's calling anybody a zombie," the manager backtracks.
"I have...been shopping here...for over...a millenia...and I've spent...a lot...of money...in this place..."
"Sir, we've only been open since 1998," the manager says.
A spider crawls out of a fissure in the mummy's skull. "Refund me now...or I...will curse...you..." he threatens.
"It's policy, sir," Doug says, "My hands are tied."
The mummy lowers his head and his empty eyesockets glow red. "So...be...it..." he snarls, raising his skeleton arms to the ceiling. Reciting some kind of ancient incantation ["Death Shall Come...on Swift Wings...to Him Who Disturbs...the Peace of the King...!"] the roof to the store suddenly explodes and a swarm of locusts invade the shop. Insects cover every inch of merchandise. Terrified shoppers scream and wail. The manager Doug cries out for help, but the pestilence consumes his voice before it can even leave his mouth. Red, fleshy skin globs are torn from the register girl's milquetoast facade - her face a smear of boogers and blood. And through the haze of antenna and legs, a sliver of moonlight breaks through the living air. The manager looks at it with wide, desperate eyes. Thick beads of Crisco slime vomit forth from his pores. He falls to his knees and retches. Hair sprouts from the nape of his neck. His legs buckle backwards. Fangs. Paws. Ears. Fur. He stands up - nine fee tall - born feline anew, the manager mews.
The locusts scatter in the same frenzy they descended. The surviving shoppers reach for their scattered coupons. The mummy looks to the manager with terror.
"Oh my..." the mummy exclaims, "Bastet...you've...returned...!"
"Hello, mummy," says the cat-god Bastet.
"I meant...no disrespect...my Lord..." the mummy genuflects, uncomfortably creaking on disintergrated bone, "These jeans...just didn't...fit right..."
"The jeans are just fine, mummy. Perhaps it is you who doesn't fit them. Perhaps your soul is not ready to pass on to Aaru and join Osiris on his journey around the sun."
"Please...my Lord...I only wanted...my money...back..."
"You disappoint me, mummy," goes Bastet, "You have not earned you place in the Kingdom; for the weight of your heart is greater than the feather of your mind. By Ammit's jaw, you are hearby banished from this Store of Earthly Delights, forced to wander the mall without rest or asylum, until your soul can be cleansed of all indiscression."
"Please...Bastet...I am...worthy..." the mummy pleads, "I am...worthy...I was...once King...!"
"Go, before I'm forced to call security," the cat-god commands, turning away from the mummy to refold a stack of vee-neck tees.
The mummy hangs his head and steps out into the mall. Doomed forever to roam these halls until his soul could be pure enough to find its way to Aaru. He looks at the other shopping bag around his wrist. If he could just get Old Navy and return this fleece cardigan, perhaps then, he could finally rest in peace.
THE END.
- - -
Danger_Slater is the world's most flammable writer! He is your favorite writer! He loves you!
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