Stalk Más

“In the queso?” Bridgette demanded. “Why would you even do that?”

“What? Allegra asked all innocent, swinging the ladle around in a lazy circle a third time to seal the deal. “It was just a little casting spell. You said you were tired of carrying that thing around in that little Purell bottle.”

“You know it can’t stay there,” Bridgette waved at the queso pan in the warming tray. She started chanting until Allegra joined in:

Every curse must be passed.

The first to own is not the last.

Luckily, they were the only two on the late shift, and the lobby had been closed since, oh, April. So they could do what they wanted as long as they passed semi-warm food out the window and swiped debit cards now and then. And a little casual spell-casting was certainly not the worst thing that had ever occurred at the Maumee Street Taco Bell.

“OK, OK,” Allegra said, shrugging. “Next dork in the drive-thru gets your dead ex-boyfriend’s stalker vibe.”

Except the next asshole to come through was a serial killer. He had all the vibe he needed. The one after that wasn’t into murder, just angora rabbits, and not in a good way. And the next woman, let’s just say she would have enjoyed the vibe a tad too much while Zoom-ing with her third-grade language arts class.

“Oh, we got a winner,” Bridgette stage whispered after getting a good glance at the guy after that.

 “Should we?” Allegra asked, peering out over Bridgett’s shoulder. Bridgette pointed, not very subtly, at his sweatshirt, which read: Minecraft Super League Gaming World Championship, 2014.

“Oh, Mother,” Allegra sighed, “and he’s still wearing it.”

“You think?” Bridget lifted her eyebrows.

“It would be an act of Mercy,” Allegra replied. Then, “Here, hon. Extra queso. Stalk más.”

Carman C. Curton consumes caffeine while writing a series of microstories called QuickFics, which she leaves in random places for people to find. You can find her on Twitter and Facebook @CarmanCCurton.

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