Black Friday – flash fiction by Michael Botur

 

 

Security poked us in our chests if our toes were over the line, they took K-Mart’s 24 hour Black Friday Sale hella serious, and how could you not when electronics was up to 80% off.

The manager blew this whistle on a string of twine and we were knocked forward, tidal rise, hit the wall, veered right like we’d practised, stepped over the 42 and 55 inch and put our elbows round the very last 64 inch plasma Samsung TV. People were coming directly at me as we swung right, then left, knocking down a lady and her zimmer frame, a couple kids, then we stepped onto the couch, exactly how we’d run through it the last ten weekends, and landed on a minitramp, boinged through babywear. At the boulevard, where the floor gleamed whitewear-white, we veered north. Stole a trolley from a pigtailed girl with braces. Watched her joyful face break. Drove hard towards the checkouts. Praise Lord Jesus – here was an empty checkout amongst the human fungus, white eyes and black pouts, our own checkout ignored and overlooked and we offloaded our Biblically-big box onto the conveyor belt, but no, peering over the counter we saw only a screensaver and a locked till.

The few who piled on us were light – children, bantams, teens with bodies bony as a Slinky – then older ones amassed behind them and drove me down, crushing, pulverising, scratching Hello Kitty lip balm, tearing out contacts and hearing aids, ruffling wigs, pulling the last four hairs from an old man’s chrome dome, we caught a goodbye glimpse of our 64 inch plasma screen carried away, a carcass held up by howling hunters.