Sitting against the shelves full of cans, jars and sachets, I downed another drink. Florencia liked me. This was disgrace, a mishap of mythical proportions. I stared at the can in my hand and I refused to accept reality. I had failed. I had not been enough of a cunt with her. I felt like a parent facing the prospect of his only son being a redpilled gay communist furry fortnite player that wants to get an arts degree. Like, would I hit on Florencia if I were drunk enough? Just like I would hit the aforementioned son if I had one, probably.
Vera offered me another can of the heavenly beverage, and I took it. I poked a hole in the top with my dagger and began drinking its contents. The succubus dedicated me a worried stare. “¿Che boló, ‘tas seguro de que no te va a llover el culo si te seguí’ tomando el agua de laj aceituna’?
“That’s no way to speak to your new boss, Vera!” I chided her, and took another sweet sip of this ambrosia.
“E’ salmuera, te va’ cagá’.”
I extended a line of belts to slap the soccer ball away, making her run to not lose her streak of keepy-uppies. I didn’t know demonic women could move that fast. She left a trail of fire over the tiles. The salty flavor of olive brine blessed my lips once more, and made my worries dissipate. “I hope I get some damn good loot by murdering these kidneys of mine.”
I threw the dried out can away, the olives inside bouncing loudly against the walls of their prison. I thought about how they would wrinkle in the lonely dark now. Poor olives; what a sad life they had. Fist pitted, then pitied.
I requested another can and Vera didn’t answer. I had to stand and walk across the aisle to grab a new one. An unbelievable act of disrespect towards her new boss. I ordered my succubae skin cape (don’t ask how I got it) to wave ominously behind me as I acquired a new can. I needed to stablish my absolute ownership of the place. Barely stopped my hands as they instinctively reached for my zipper. Not like that, not like that.
“Wait, this is a conserves aisle,” I thought out loud. A smirk creeped over my ugly face.
I began laughing as a villain ought to do, only to be interrupted by the loudspeakers.
“Remember to lose your children so I can take adequate care of them,” Informed a very professional Canaver. I couldn’t get mad at him; he was doing merits to become employee of the month.
I tried to laugh again, got a coughing fit, that in turn caused a cramp in my left side, that resulted in me taking a maladroit step and tripping on a can of olives. Long story short: I kissed the namesake of my favorite Nightwish vocalist: Floor.
Moaning from pain was not cool enough for me to do it, so I made my belts and cape lift me back to a standing position.
“Go on a diet!” began a belt.
“Walter? More like Water cistern,” Another followed
“Gallardo no, Galardlard,” and a third…
“Ignacio? More like Instagram Sodium Central Intelligence Orogen,” said the attire idiot.
The rest of my belts turned to point their buckles at it. “Orogen means mountain,” it finally explained.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Masterful,” another belt cheered, and the praise became epidemical soon enough.
“A dialogue worthy of the pear shaker!”
“Jay Ar Ar Talkwho stopped spinning in his grave!”
Literally environed by jobbernowls, I sighed and readied myself for the slight annoyance that casting reanimate in thousands of bodies would cause.
“Canaver, I need a soundtrack!” I shouted, so he would hear from the toddler slaughterh… childcare facility.
“Fuck you!” he argued with a finesse rarely seen among undead dogs.
“Forget it!”
I pulled my belt-sleeves up and focused my magic in the can of pitted olives. They screamed when brought to life. “Where is my seed? My seed! Dingus ate my seed!” they yelled into my mind. A delightful display of their Angstyosperm nature.
I reanimated more and more conserves, making fungi, animal and vegetable products push against their metal or glass prisons, causing jars and cans and bottle to orbit me. I was in the right path to become a solar system of prepping.
The foodstuff slowly came to accept their terrible fates. The reality of being sliced, pitted, shredded, flaked or straight up mushed. But even then, even reduced to these sorry states, they could serve. And they would serve me.
Motherfucker, I miss my necromantic powers.
I began parading down the aisle, bottles of tomato sauce jumping over my head like playful dolphins. A child in a toy store would not feel happier than I was. Vera met me aqt aqn intersection with another aisle, still doing keepy-uppies. She let the ball fall, and so did her jaw. She crossed at her chest, and immediately yelped in pain, probably realizing she was a spawn of hell.
“Santo Dieguito Armando, se habrá confundío el vainillín con la ‘caroína[1],” said Vera , visibly worried by my vulgar display of grocerymancy.
“Listen to the music, Vera. Do you hear it?”
“I hear Café La Humedá,” she answered in earnest, tilting her head.
“Not Cacho Castaña. The symphony of tortured fruits, vegetables and fishes!” I exclaimed, extending my arms for the cans of tuna to perch on them.
“Cacho Castaña and music are synonymous.”
“Bitch get the sand out of your throat. What is your opinion on the Cadillacs?”
“‘Tan bien, pero prefiero el Cuarteto.” she shrugged and grabbed her ball from the ground.
I gave up. She had Cordoba-brain. The only cure was cutting her off from the wine, and by all I knew, withdrawal could kill her.
So I ignored Vera and continued my way down the Aisle. The nanny succubus saw me and crawled away crying. “Aww, I caused her lifelong trauma.” I told to a bag of flour.
“Jerk,” the paper of the bag said.
“Not here, Four Zeroes: I need privacy for that.”
And so I kept reanimating various objects all around the super to distress. Hands raised in the air, I danced down and up aisles as powdered starch and lentils rained upon me.
Eventually, turning a corner, I faced a tailwagging, wet figure.
“We meet again, Petrayer,” Mariana uttered, an empty pack of cookies serving as a hood to add to the ominosity of her statement.
“Impossible! You were…”
Mariana took a bra out of her inventory and threw it in front of me. Fetched it back to herself, threw it again, and so forth, about seven times in a row before she decided to close her eyes before throwing the thing at my feet, circumventing her need to fetch. “I am unbathable, you foolish master.”
“This is Florencia’s?” I hummed pensively as I beheld the piece of clothing. “it’s cotton.” I picked it up, reanimated it, and made it hurdle itself against Mariana.
“Indeed it is.” Mariana said as the brassiere tried in vain to strangle her. “It’s time to pay, Walter.”
“With belly-rubbies?”
Mariana began hopping in place excitedly. “Yes! Yes!”
I paid the hefty price of petrayal, until I heard a wailing cry that froze the blood of every hellish or heavenly thing in the Market. “Mariana! Give me my mammary scabbard back!”
Being a Retriever and a being physically incapable of holding a grudge, Mariana obeyed, returning the undergarment to the angry, barefoot, toweled half-elf.
I thought about complimenting her calves to see and derive amusement from her reaction, but there was a reason why the zoos forbid people from feeding the animals. It was better I kept my interactions with the girl to the minimum necessary until she developed her gland of commonsenseine.
“Excuse me, girls,” I said after a few instants, my innards rumbling and my ass fighting a losing battle. The brine had taken its toll. “I need to make my way to the toilets.”
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[1] “He must have confused the artificial vanilla extract and the creolin”