Title: Friday the 13th (Berto, The Grungy Teen Worker at the Chasing Amy Tower Store Remix) Author: Katie (meboja90@yahoo.com) Fandom: Askewniverse Pairing: mild Steve-Dave/Walt, Banky/Hooper. Rating: R Archive: Yeah, to those I mail it to, of course. The other dudes can ask me. Series: Nope. Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except Berto. But I wouldn't be bragging. Note: Remix of Nyghtshayde's "Friday the 13th" Summary: Berto, a Tower clerk, watches things go really weird. Other Notes: Sorry! I'm sorry this is late. "Figures that (Tower) is going belly-up." The arguably, first Tower store is being shut down and turned into a multiplex. =================================== Roberto Stewart was having a Good Day. This was odd, because Berto, as he was called, didn't have many good days. His normal day began with him taking a hot shower to attempt to cleanse himself of the lower middle class stench. This usually did not work because (a) generic shampoo adds to said stench, (b) Berto spent more time masturbating than bathing, and (c) his bitch of an older sister used all the warm water. Berto would pedal his way to school and endure six hours of dejection and mediocrity. At three o'clock, he'd cycle to his work and stay there until seven. At home, Berto's day would round out with a bowl of Ramen. Berto Stewart's life sucked But not that day. That day, he woke up not feeling the need to jump off a bridge. So far, so good. Berto stumbled out of bed and into his closet, pondering what to wear. But wait; some strangely unwrinkled foreign object was blocking his vision. Berto studied the article and found that it was a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans neatly cleaned and pressed. This was peculiar; Berto didn't remembered ironing anything, or owning an iron for that matter. The boy grabbed the clothes and shrugged it off as the work of Laundry Elves. However, it was not the Laundry Elves. It was Berto's mother, Laverne. This was surprising, atypical even, as the only person Laverne ever did anything for was Laverne. But sure enough, when Berto came out into the kitchen from his hot shower (yes, hot), Laverne, who was wearing a June Cleaver get-up, hustled over and said, "Don't you look nice, Berto? All it took was a little ironing. Doesn't he look so handsome, Dean?" (By the by, Dean was her beer-guzzling, mullet-sporting boyfriend, who was at that time in a business suit, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.) "Golly, he sure does look spiffy," Dean said. "Say, Sport. You're not too high-brow to play catch after work?" "Uh. No, I guess not." "Here, sweetie," Laverne said. "Have some pancakes. They're straight off the griddle." "Thanks, Mom." "You're welcome, little man," she said, placing a heap of syrup-covered flapjacks in front of her son. Berto prodded the breakfast with his fork. It looked safe enough, and, hey, if it killed him at least he would die eating pancakes. As for everything else. he didn't know what the fuck was going on. His mom ironing his clothes? Dean wearing clean clothes? His sister not being a water Nazi? Too weird. But what was he going to do? Tell everyone to stop being so nice to him? Berto chewed down the tasty carbs and chugged down his orange juice. "Mom, where's Shelley?" "At school, of course. She is just so devoted to that Comparative Lit class. I swear-more juice, sweetie?" "No, thank you." "I swear, she stayed up half the night with the reading." Berto looked at the microwave clock. It was almost time to start off to school. "I better go. Bye." He walked to the door and grabbed his helmet. "Wait! Wait!" Laverne yelled, racing after him. "You forgot this." She handed him a sack lunch. "And this." She kissed him on the cheek. "Have a good day." She embraced her son and walked away misty-eyed. Berto didn't hesitate to make haste on his bicycle. *** School wasn't any more normal than home. Actually, it was worse. In first period, Mr. Mac handed back their tests and Berto aced it. In gym, he managed to finish the mile run in record time. At fourth, the hottest girl in the class of 2006 asked him to sit with her at lunch. And at lunch, the cafeteria ladies were giving away free ice cream. The next three hours followed suit. Although having the world in his palm was fine and dandy, Berto wanted more than anything to spend his afternoon at work, lighting incense and listening to over-credited Jim Morrison self-worship. Young Stewart did not hold séances; he kept cashier at Tower Records. It was easy work, mindless, but easy. Give change. Don't abate shop-lifters. Put day's funds in blue bag and deposit in bank on way home. Despite the terrible smell and the minimum wage remuneration, Berto liked the job. It allowed him to finish his homework, stay away from home, and buy all store merch with a seventeen percent discount. The boss was pretty cool, too. He had ugly-ass hair and smelled a little, but he was a decent guy. And the counter was solitary. And solitude was good for Berto, very good. Berto cycled to the record store and settled into his routine. Halfway into his algebra assignment, the clerk realized that nothing was different in there. The Boss (the manager of the shop, not Bruce Springstein) was still fugly. Aaron, the stock boy, still placed Dark Side of the Moon under "F" for "Floyd" instead of "P" for "Pink." And the customers were still absolute morons. It was good to be home. Just when he thought he was in the clear, the two comic book nerds showed up. Nothing was unusual about them coming to the store (except they themselves), they came in everyday after they closed their outlet and asked if the new CD from DJ so-and-so was in stock. The answer was always no, and the reply was always the redheaded one degrading Berto in funny book terms. When they came around, whether if they were being civil to the staff or complete elitist douche bags, the nerds displayed a sick, little relationship. The tall one, who looked like the Boss but skinny, was constantly dominating the little one, who looked like Berto's good-for-nothing guidance counselor. This behavior is exhibited in all pairs, but with those two. It was like they were projecting sexual positions-who was top and who was bottom. (Of course, these estimations may not be quite accurate as they were accumulated by Berto was fifteen and very, very carnally oriented.) But not that day. That day, the duo walked with an entirely new air. The little one strolled in the joint commanding a larger height than his five-foot-something frame could portray. The other scuttled behind him, practically hiding in his own facial hair. The wee one dropped his shoulders when he reached the counter and in a nasally voice spat out, "Hey, Jimmy Olsen. My compadre and I are interested in a purchase." Berto wiped the spray out spit off his face and glared. He paused and said, "You haven't looked at anything." "We don't need to," the new submissive came in on. "We have no need to peruse your fuckin' rickety shelves. We know what we want." He pulled out a slip of paper. "I even wrote out a list. I hope I worded it as to not addle your shit brain." "'Addle your shit brain.' Good one, Walt." "I think I will be able to manage," Berto responded, taking the list and looking at the inventory list. "We don't have any of this." "Figures." "Figures." "Figures that some one-horse business like this wouldn't carry the wares of the modern man." "Tell 'im, Walt!" "Figures that the franchise is going belly-up." "Preach, brother! Preach!" "Figures that we're taking our business to Crow's Nest." The nerds turned and began to walk away. "I'll miss you, deeply," Berto stated. The wee one flipped the clerk the bird. Berto blew him a kiss and went back to his math. Around four-thirty, another pair of patrons came in. Banky Edwards (paid with checks) and Hooper X (was semi-famous for something) were their names. Banky was white, wore a beard and baseball cap, liked glam rock and Green Day. Hooper was black, stylish and swishy, liked old school anything and Yanni. Berto presumed them a couple after catching them snogging in the cavernous new wave section. They were cute. Hooper antagonized Banky for acting straight because of fear. Banky antagonized Hooper for acting straight because of his career. But not that day. That day, Banky fluttered in, clean-shaven and wearing couture, followed by Hooper, who sported a five o'clock shadow and Banky's hat. Berto's jaw actually dropped. "Whatchu' gettin', babycakes?" Banky asked, shadowing his lover. "That's so fuckin' faggy. It's not even a good pet name," Hooper replied in a crackly, head voice. "It's better than honeybuns." Banky fiercely grabbed Hooper's butt. "Jesus H. Christ! Not in fucking public! God! Some of us have a career to uphold. I can't just throw everything away for a goddamn public display of affection!" Banky made Hooper's patented sulky face complete with pouty lip. "Banky. don't-don't make that face." Hooper rubbed Banky's arm. "You wanna go to the new wave section?" "I would be honored, my liege," the white man replied, linking arms with the other. The two recessed from the area about ten minutes later and highly ruffled. They examined the stock of DVDs and CDs for a half of an hour, scrutinizing and poking fun at whatever artist they subjected. When they finally came up to the counter, Berto rang up the first season of "Welcome Back, Kotter," the new Flaming Lips album, Jim Norton's stand-up disc, and the Reservoir Dogs special edition DVD. "Have a nice day," Berto said, handing Hooper the bag of media goods. The couple walked out, Banky's arm draped around Hooper's shoulder and Hooper's hand in Banky's back pocket. Overall, a very saccharine pictorial. Twenty minutes before closing, another couple, a pretty lady and a harrowed, middle-aged man, came to the register. Berto had never seen them before, but they felt familiar. "Hello, Roberto. Are you having a good day?" the girl chirped, putting her CDs on the counter. "Yeah, pretty good," the boy smiled, not wondering how the stranger knew his name. "Well, that's great. We all need to have good days," she winked. "Don't you think so?" She elbowed her partner. He harrumphed. "He's not much of a talker today. Too busy with work, I guess." "Did you find everything alright?" Berto swiped the merchandise on the anti-theft pad. "I had no trouble at all. Y'know, this giant load has been lifted off my shoulders today and I'm finding everything a bit easier." "That's cool. Do you want to reserve anything? It's all, like, written out on the board?" She glanced over the dry erase board. "I think I'll reserve the "Degrassi" season one DVD. But I can't pick it up myself, can I have someone else do it?" "Uh, sure. What's your name?" "Christina Godfrey. G-O-D-F-R-E-Y. Like the angry comedian. Or the black comedian. Either one works." "Right." Berto ran them up. "Thirty-three fifty-two is your total." "Here you go." "Are you familiar with our return policy? The Enya CDs are on sale, so you can't return them. The Marilyn Manson has a second disc for your DVD player and has an interactive feed to marilynmanson.com, and if it doesn't work, call us and we'll try to help." "You've been extremely helpful. Thank-you." The pair started out. The lady turned around. "Do you know where I can find some skee-ball?" *** Berto woke around ten that Saturday. He struggled out of bed and into his closet. No ironed clothing. He went into the shower. Cold, dead cold. He walked to the kitchen. No breakfast. No Mom. No Dean. In fact, he could hear them snoring away. Berto looked around and mumbled, "Fuck this, I'm going to play EverQuest."