make up a story, tell a lie.

He asked: Why were you so perplexed by the gas station’s beer selection?

I answered: That was right before the gunman demanded the cash from the register so I suppose it’s a portrait with a sense of foreboding.

He asked: Now I have a glimpse into what you experienced on that evening, but I’m afraid you’ve sparked another question: Can you tell me more? The gunman, the beer selection, the foreboding: TELL ME MORE?

I answered: Well – I was on my way to a soirée with my two companions (both temporary fixtures in my life, but not of small importance) and we were having a bit of a tiff: the Italian wanted an IPA, while the Indian desired a domestic case. I, myself, was more inclined towards dark beers, for they have a warmth I find is often lacking in my life.  I felt myself losing the brew battle, but forced a stalemate born of stubbornness, unwilling to be swayed.  That’s when the noises in the background turns to voices saying words.  No, not saying: demanding. Demanding cash from drawers left locked save for change to be made for a purchase’s completion. A warning shot was fired into drop ceiling tiles, and my partners ducked for cover – more aware of growing trouble than I (left still, left standing).  I took the shot as a chance and grabbed a six of smokey porters and made my way contented to the open door.

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