SeaTTTle.

Closing shift.

The rain outside pounds against the glass doors in rhythmic fury, an uninvited drumline for the night’s chaos. Inside, aisle 7 is a disaster zone—spilled flour, crushed cereal boxes, and a trail of rogue avocados leading to produce carnage.

Evan39 stands at the self-checkout, gripping the Safeway Club Card scanner like a deputy’s badge in a lawless town. His khakis are streaked with marinara from the earlier “Pasta Incident,” and his Safeway-issued polo is damp with sweat and despair.

“It’s fine,” he mutters under his breath, though the words sound hollow. He scans the chaos unfolding before him: a gaunt man in a trench coat pacing near the seafood section, his arms filled with frozen fish fillets, and a woman perched atop a toppled display of La Croix, shouting at invisible customers.

Behind him, Tabitha—the Black obese HR lady—sits on a pallet of canned beans, sipping her Big Gulp like it’s a chalice of smug satisfaction. Her HR handbook is balanced on one knee, open to a page titled “Dealing with Non-Compliant Guests.” She doesn’t even bother looking up as she says, “Evan, baby, you better figure this out quick. Corporate sure as hell isn’t sending in the cavalry.”

A CRASH echoes from produce. Evan’s head snaps around just in time to see the woman, now wielding a celery stalk like a scepter, declare, “I AM THE GUARDIAN OF THE AVOCADOS. NONE SHALL PASS.”

Evan winces and punches at the touchscreen on the Club Card scanner. “If I can just activate the kiosk lockdown…” The screen flickers: “SYSTEM OVERRIDE: CONTACT STORE SUPPORT.”

He groans. Support doesn’t even work nights. Probably asleep in some cushy, Club Card-funded mansion.

Tabitha snorts. “What’s your next move, cowboy? Gonna wave that scanner around and yell about compliance? That’ll scare ‘em.” She pauses to take a long sip. “Or you could try reason. I hear celery monarchs respect diplomacy.”

Evan whirls toward her, panic flashing in his eyes. “What am I supposed to do, Tabitha? They’ve turned the avocado aisle into a war zone!” He gestures wildly toward the seafood counter, where the gaunt man is now assembling a barricade out of frozen salmon. “That guy’s fortifying his position. I think he’s planning a siege!”

Tabitha laughs, a deep, wheezy sound that echoes across the empty aisles. “Baby, you’re asking the wrong questions. This ain’t about avocados. This is about you. You signed up for ‘leadership opportunities,’ remember? Well, here’s your chance to shine.”

The celery queen lets out a guttural battle cry and hurls her scepter toward the seafood barricade. It misses its mark, instead hitting a rogue avocado and splattering green pulp across the linoleum. The gaunt man responds with a primal shriek, chucking a frozen halibut in her direction. It sails through the air like a missile, landing squarely in the middle of the bread aisle.

Evan watches, stunned. He knows he should do something—say something—but all he can manage is, “Please… stop throwing fish.”

Tabitha wheezes harder, clutching her stomach as tears stream down her cheeks. “Evan, honey, you better start calling this a team-building exercise, ‘cause you’re about to lose whatever’s left of that avocado budget.”

The woman leaps from the La Croix fortress and begins assembling a throne from overturned watermelon crates. “The produce section is now my kingdom,” she declares. “Bring me tribute, or face the wrath of the celery guard!”

Evan sighs, running a hand down his face. He considers fleeing to the breakroom, maybe locking the door and pretending none of this is happening. But the memory of Corporate’s last memo stops him cold: “Managers must remain on the floor to demonstrate leadership in challenging situations.”

Tabitha flips a page in her handbook, her soda straw making an audible slorp. “Oh, look at this, Evan. Says here you’re supposed to ‘empower’ your team. So go on, sugar—empower yourself to deal with the celery queen.”

The gaunt man, now wearing a salmon filet as a makeshift cape, rises from behind his barricade. “I DECLARE WAR ON PRODUCE!” he roars, grabbing a nearby shopping cart and pushing it toward the avocado throne.

Evan steps back, his scanner beeping uselessly in his hand. He mutters to himself, “It’s fine. This is fine.” But as the shopping cart crashes into the watermelon crates and the celery queen retaliates with a volley of grapefruits, even he knows better.

It was never fine. It never will be.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5658516&forum_id=2#48513385)