Gregory, on a quest for printer ink and possible answers, wandered into the local mall—a place where time had congealed somewhere between 2008 and a Forever 21 clearance rack.
The fluorescent lighting gave everything a spiritual beige tint. The scent? Half disappointment, half cinnamon pretzel.
He stopped at Auntie Anne's, where a teenage cashier with glitter eyeliner and no fear of God asked, "Would you like cheese sauce for 75 cents?"
Gregory stared at the menu.
Stared at his reflection in the sneeze guard.
Stared at the pretzel dog rotating behind glass like a meat-based prophecy.
"Yes," he whispered. "I'm finally choosing flavor over shame."
Maurice, peeking out from his fanny pack like a therapy mascot on sabbatical, declared, "Congratulations. You just bought yourself a plot arc."
Gregory dipped his pretzel.
It dripped grease and catharsis.
Delicious.
---
Scene 79: The IKEA Hex Returns
A week later, Gregory found a single Allen wrench in his sock drawer.
