The nicotine withdrawal would kick in soon after skipping a couple days of lighting up a cigarette, and I figured that it was time for a new pack. Unfortunately, it would be at a gas station up in Niles after I dropped off my brother for his sporting tournament. At this particular gas station, I inquired about the price for a pack of Marlboro Reds, dubious as to whether or not I wanted to make a purchase. Without showing any emotion, he asked for my ID, even after I merely asked for the pack's pricing and not the actual possession of it.
"I just want to know the price," I told him, yet he persisted, the bastard.
I gave up my ID and he asked about the name and birth date. He asked with a face like he had seen his own dog being mauled by a pair of vicious characters who had a personal vendetta against him, and I'd like to imagine that his former wife had cheated on him because he no longer "was a man". This cashier really grinded my gears, up to the point where I took my ID and left, finally saying aloud, "I just wanted to know what the fucking price was, asshole."
I went back into the car with malicious images, mentally cursing at the bastard for providing such a futile and rough time for a simple question.
I named him Mo because he reminds me of a neighbor I used to hate with a passion.
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