“A Little Pedantic” (“Win for Life” horror remix)

Image made by the author using Adobe Spark

This is a horror remix of a previous story— “Win for Life”__________________________________________________________________________________

“What’s up, Hoffen-franken-mushu-stein?” Bill said, interrupting Hoffenreider. Absorbed in his textbook, Communication: Making Connections, Hoffenreider hadn’t noticed Bill come into the convenience store. The store never got customers, especially not at that time of night, so Hoffenreider was able to study. He was taking extra classes that summer so he could graduate a semester early from Middlesex State University.

“Whatcha you doing, man? Reading some books and making some power moves?” Bill said.

“Sure, big moves,” Hoffenreider said without looking up from his book.

Bill squinted like he was thinking. “So, what’s up with Citgo, man? It’s weird thinking of you working here. You don’t seem like a Citgo guy. Is that what they do to the guys who don’t get the top grade?”

“It’s just for the summer. It’s not like I’m a townie. I don’t even live here.”

“You do right now,” Bill said.

Bill smelled sickeningly stale. The NPR station Hoffenreider normally played on the gas station’s little boombox started another classical music song before screeching and going silent. Hoffenreider walked over, fooled around with the dials, and plugged and unplugged the boombox, which remained silent. He shrugged as he walked back to the counter.

Hoffenreider might not have seemed like a Citgo guy now, but he had been one. When he’d applied for the summer job, his supervisor, Naum, made Hoffenreider come back twice to talk before hiring him, which felt weird, like having to introduce yourself to your best friend. Naum might not have known Hoffenreider, but Hoffenreider knew the Citgo.

A few years before, the guys at the Citgo had sold weed and coke from behind the counter. If you were in the know, you could say what you wanted, and they would slide a bag over to you when you checked out, which they kept hidden from the store’s security camera by a strategically placed box of candy. It was popular with kids from the high school, who were connected to it by none other than a young Hoffenreider himself, who sold those same small bags out of his backpack at school.

“Hey, what happened to that kid who used to work here during the day? The kid who always wore sweatpants? He used to look at me real weird when I came in here,” Bill said.

“Oh, Aaron? He got fired for stealing scratch-offs.”

“No, shit. People here are always stealing scratch-offs, huh?”

“He had a good idea: he pulled out the roll when no one was here and took them from the middle before rolling it back up. We have to write down the number on the last card every time we leave, but because he took them from the middle, the numbers at the end of his shift were what they should have been. They only keep the video,” Hoffenreider nodded his head toward the security camera, “for three days.”

“So, how’d they get him?” Bill asked.

“Out of nowhere, the 1-1-1 Guy came in and bought like a million Win for Lifes,” Hoffenreider said, laughing.

“Does he buy Win for Lifes?” Bill asked.

The 1-1-1 Guy was super old and only bought two things: lotto tickets with all ones and cartons of eggs. He repeated the number “one” a million times when saying what he wanted on his ticket.

“He’d never done anything like that. He bought so many that they caught up to where Aaron had taken the tickets. No one could figure out what happened, so Naum checked the video and saw Aaron taking them. It was gonna be erased the next day.” Hoffenreider shook his head.

“Aaron got fucked,” Bill said when Hoffenreider was done with the story. “That’s crazy. He was so close to getting away with it.”

“He was pissed. Naum took it pretty hard. They’d been boys. I asked Naum about it, and he said that Aaron said something racist when Naum asked him why he did it.”

“What? Why?”

“Got me, man. I don’t know what race has to do with scratch-off tickets.”

“So, what was he getting, the Win for Lifes?” Bill said. “What do they run anyway?”

“Two each,” Hoffenreider answered.

“Oh, yeah?” Bill paused for a beat. “Let me get one,” he said, nodding towards the case of scratch-offs.

Hoffenreider tore off one of the cards. Meanwhile, Chicky appeared behind him. “Lucy’s still out there smoking a butt,” Chicky said. “What’s up, Hoffenreider,” he said, nodding toward him.

“What’s up, Chicky?” Hoffenreider said.

Hoffenreider rang up the card and Bill slid two singles over to him.

“For Aaron,” Bill said ceremoniously before scratching it off. He held the quarter tight in his fist, which made it look like he was scratching off the ticket with his flesh.

“How’d ya do?” Hoffenreider asked.

Bill held the card up close to his face. “You need four to win, but I only got two.”

“Here, let me see that,” Hoffenreider said, taking the card from him. “You need four dollar signs to win the jackpot, but only three to win some money. You got two,” Hoffenreider said.

“You were pretty close,” Chicky said.

“Yeah, I think you can actually win a decent amount of money with three,” Hoffenreider said distractedly. He paused, looked at the card, looked at Bill, and then looked back at the card. “Crazy, right? If you got three, you might have the salary you’d earn for months of work just handed to you because you scratched off this card,” he said.

“That much? Without even hitting the jackpot?” Bill said.

Hoffenreider leaned against the cash register, resting his elbow on it and putting his other hand on his waist. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen guys come in here with just three and win all types of money. That’s why Aaron stole these: you can make a lot,” Hoffenreider said.

Bill looked at him. “You think so?” he said. “Hey, give me another,” he said after a beat.

“Win for life. Don’t give a fuck ‘cause you won for life,” Chicky screamed, boosting the energy of the fun.

Hoffenreider tore off another and handed it to him. “Could be the one,” he said.

Bill set upon it, scratching it off intensely. “Nothing,” he said without looking up.

“Sucks,” Hoffenreider said and then laughed shrilly. “If you won? I mean, really won? No more time in the warehouse. No more time at your workstation with the boss being a dick to you. Get up when you want, sleep when you want, do what you want. I see guys at college kind of like that. The future’s bright, bro.”

“The future,” Chicky screamed. “Gonna be dope.”

“Yeah, Chicky. The future would be dope if Bill won. Man, he could buy this whole place, and then I’d work for him.”

“If I owned a store like this, I would scratch off all the cards. Then you would have all that money,” Chicky reasoned.

“Imagine how much money you would have if you had all those cards,” Hoffenreider said. “Would you sell those cards if you had them, Chicky?”

“No. No, definitely not,” Chicky said, shaking his head.

“Another,” Bill said, slapping a stack of bills down on the counter.

“Smart. That’s smart,” Chicky said, nodding his head solemnly.

Hoffenreider tore off two more. He handed one to Bill and kept the other in his hand, which he rested on the counter with the card facing up. Without saying anything, Bill grabbed the first card, leaned in close, and started scratching it off.

“If you’re—" Hoffenreider started, but Bill grabbed the second card from him without taking his eyes off the first, which he tossed aside without comment after seeing the results.

Hoffenreider pulled off a few more that he gently piled up on the counter. “Bill’s gonna win big, man. He’s gonna have some pull in this town. Bill’s gonna be the guy to go to when you want to make stuff happen—just like when we were kids,” Hoffenreider said. Chicky met Hoffenreider’s eyes and nodded his head in short, rapid bursts.

Bill stopped scratching. He held his head too close to the card for them to see what it said.

“So?” Chicky said.

Bill didn’t answer. He kept his head down. He stood frozen, bent at the waist, his face still close to the card.

“You win for life, Bill? You win at life now?” Hoffenreider said.

That was when Hoffenreider noticed little droplets on the counter. He followed them to Bill’s card and stopped smirking. Bill’s hand was bleeding. Hoffenreider recoiled. “What the fuck, Bill?”

Saying nothing, Bill hungrily set upon the stack of cards Hoffenreider had put out.

“Put more down,” Bill said in a low, guttural voice.

“Can’t win if you don’t play,” Chicky said.

Hoffenreider stared at Bill’s hand, which left behind thick swaths of red as he violently rubbed it over the card.

“Dude, use a coin,” Hoffenreider said.

“Put more down,” Bill thundered, tossing aside the finished card.

“Use a coin,” Hoffenreider shouted as he reached into the case for more cards, which Bill savagely took without looking up.

“More,” Bill shouted as he impotently scratched at the cards. His fingernails hung loose.

“In chaos, there’s opportunity,” Chicky shouted.

The radio suddenly snapped on, its lights glowing a bright, angry red, as it blared a terrible, high-pitched wail. Hoffenreider put his hands to his ears, rotating to look at the radio before snapping his attention back to the counter, where Bill groped at the scratch-off dispenser, seizing what he could with his left hand while continuing to tear at the cards in front of him with the flesh of his right.

“Gotta bleed if you wanna lead,” Chicky screeched, his eyes wild, his pitch matching that of the radio’s wailing.

Stunned, Hoffenreider stared, making small noises as he watched Bill pull out the final few Win for Life cards before banging dully on the empty dispenser’s thick, translucent plastic. He hunched over the mound of cards, making sucking noises and grunts as though sloppily devouring a meal. His right hand was mangled like he’d gotten it trapped in the moving parts of a stainless-steel machine and was too mashed to remove the adhesive from the scratch-offs. He continued rubbing it violently on the cards anyway, which by then were so slick with blood that the mashed pulp of his hand feebly slid off them.

Hoffenreider hurdled the counter, landing just beyond Bill’s lunatic grasp. He dashed toward the exit, only stopping to look back after the store’s automatic door had closed, sealing off behind him the smell of blood and the sounds of the radio’s crazed crescendo, Chicky’s incomprehensible screeching, and Bill’s inhuman grunts. He saw his Communications textbook, fat from having been soaked in what seemed like an impossibly large amount of blood, still on the counter.

Hoffenreider pivoted to his car, though Bill was too absorbed in the seemingly endless string of blood-splattered scratch-offs to pay attention to him anyway.

Tearing out of the parking lot in his ancient Taurus, Hoffenreider asked himself what at the time felt like the oddly lucid question of whether it was more probable that Bill would drown in the pool of blood or drown in the pool of scratch-offs the Citgo was likely to become.

The next day, however, when he read the story in the paper, it didn’t seem like so lucid of a question after all. He had to admit that all that time studying might have made him a little pedantic.