I stood in line at the Weiner-Mart, my left hand shoved in my pocket fidgeting with my keys. Never had I waited in a slower line. It wasn't the slow clerks working the registers, nor the double-wide Neanderthal of a supervisor standing behind them, with her forefinger shoved up to the first knuckle in her nose. No, I just didn't want to be there, but I couldn't think of any other solution. I had to return the merchandise.

I occupied myself by staring at the supe. She'd been rooting around in her nasal cavern for three customers. Everyone had to have noticed, but all the lemmings just stood there, keeping their flap traps shut. Not that I blamed them. It was a risk to step out of big granda's shadow and do your own thing. Part of me even cheered for the supe, though I had no desire to be shaking her hand. Her finger had been up there so long I was wondering if it was paying rent for the three-bedroom-two-bath schnauzer.

"Maeve?" a guy at a register said, looking back over his shoulder at the supe. He resembled an upside-down mop, right down to the scraggly bleach-dead hair.

The Neander-supe pulled her finger out. Something fat dangled from the end of her nail. I didn't get a good look at it, but neither did I want too. With a flick of her fingers, the mystery snot vanished. I ducked, but didn't feel anything thump against me. I had no doubt I'd feel something that big.

The woman walked up behind Mop-head. Together, they discussed whether an infant-sized Elmo t-shirt was returnable. A lady claimed she'd discovered a yellow stain on them after she had brought them home. I watched her killer pair of tanned legs as they poured out of a pair of threadbare shorts. Down in my pants, the Boss stirred. A slow pain began to course through my loins. I searched for something else to take my attention off the soccer mama.

That's when I noticed the supe had put her digging hand on the clerk's shoulder. Like a magician at her craft, she discretely wiped her hand clean on his white button-up shirt. I felt the Boss go limp in his prison. The pain eased up.

They decided to allow an exchange (there was no receipt), so the soccer mama pushed her dual-seating kid-cart toward the sea of racks. As I watched her legs recede, Mop-head called the next number.

"Eighty-eight."

I looked down at my tag. In faded red ink, it read 88. With my legs spread apart, I stepped forward. Mop-head raised an inquiring eyebrow. His dishwater gray eyes shimmered with amusement. He thought he knew what was bothering me. Over the past few hours, guys had given me that look a lot. It made me want to kick them in their oversized grapes. If only that was my problem.

"What can I do you for?" Mop-head said.

I glanced down at his tag. In white plastic with black lettering, it declared that he was Jeff. His name left me disappointed.

"Yeah, I've got something I'd like to return."

I wanted to slap myself. I sounded like I'd gotten my IQ out of one of those kid-crap machines that lurked outside the Weiner-Mart doors eating up quarters like popcorn.

The clerk looked down at my hands. My left was still in my pocket. My right rested on the counter, empty. He waited for a moment before speaking up.

"Where's the merchandise?"

"It's...away."

Mop-head's eyebrows furrowed together. "You can't return anything if you don't got it."

"Oh, I got it. It's just a little difficult to get to."

He puffed out a sigh. His breath smelled of mustard and pickle relish.

"Do you have the receipt?" he said.

I shook my head. The uncomfortable sensation between my legs throbbed. I slipped my other hand into my pants pocket. I pressed my legs together, hoping the pressure would relieve some of the discomfort. I focused my attention on the yellow-green streaks the supe had left on Mop-head's shoulder.

He threw his hands up. "Well, I can't help you if you don't have a receipt."

"I didn't buy it," I said. "I took it. I want to give it back."

Mop-head gaped at me. "You mean you stole it."

"Nah, I won it in a raffle," I said, the humor dead in my voice. "Of course, I stole it. And now you're going to take it back."

He glanced toward the supe. She had sensed that something had been amiss and was already there, her hand back on the clerk's shoulder. Close up, her nails reminded me of little shovels.

"What's the matter?" she said.

Mop-head poked his chin in my direction. "He says he wants to return something he stole."

I nodded, agreeing that the boy-genius had gotten the facts right.

Maeve didn't seem put out a bit. She brushed against the clerk for the phone on the counter. Picking up the receiver, her fingers flew over the key pad. She paused a moment, frowning disapproval at me. Like I gave a damn about her opinion.

"Manager," she said. Her voice boomed out through the speakers overhead. "Code 80. Customer Service."

The supe repeated the message and set the phone down. A loud jail-cell click echoed throughout the store, then the usual info-trash resumed playing. An oily scum shined across the matte-black of the receiver where her hand had been. I wondered if her fingers had a permanent coating of snot on them.

I looked up, wondering when they were going to ask me what I had taken. Mop-head chewed on his lower lip. He wanted to ask, but he was waiting for the Neander-supe to take the lead. And she just stood there staring at me with a why'd-you-have-to-fuck-with-my-day expression. She didn't bother saying a word.

From behind me, I heard the jingle of a single-spurred cowboy approach. I glanced back. In varsity sweats, he could've been a high school football coach gone to seed. Instead, he wore a white short-sleeved shirt whose buttons strained against his forward girth. A black spaghetti tie hung limp from his neck. On his right hip hung a fat ring of keys--the source of his jingle.

The store-coach folded his bristly arms over his chest. His plastic tag read, Dick.

"What d'you have for me, Maeve?" he said.

The supe waved her digging hand in my direction. I resisted my immediate impulse to duck.

"This young man says he took something," she said. "He wants to return it."

The manager pinched the bridge of his nose. The skin beneath his eyes was dark and baggy.

"What'd he take?"

"He hasn't said."

They both turned their attention on me, waiting for me to speak up. I could tell they would've let me hand the merchandise over right there and walk, so long as I never came back to their Weiner-Mart. I wasn't an idiot. If I could've handed it back to them I would've.

I shook my head. "I have to show you." I shrank into myself, hunkering my head down between my shoulders like a tortoise. In a quieter tone I said, "It's personal."

"Ah hell, follow me." The store-coach beckoned me with a wave of his hand. "Follow him, will you, Maeve?"

"Sure thing, Dick."

Together we walked across the front of the store like I was being escorted to the firing squad. The customers were oblivious sheep waiting for their turn to fork over their cash for their third-world goods. But the employees in their shapeless blue smocks noticed me. They had heard the page. They watched me like convict heading to the gallows--all bright eyes and curiosity, wondering what I had done. I felt like a sideshow freak waddling between the store-coach and the Neander-supe.

We turned down a hall and the manager thumbed a code into the combo-locked door-handle. He pushed the door open and climbed up the stairs on the other side. I followed him in, picking up my left leg and setting it on the first step. I then swung my right leg up, careful to keep them wide. With one step conquered, I repeated the process in the same exact order, holding my breath in anticipation of the pain that would come if I screwed this up.

Halfway up, the store-coach called down to me, "You got a bum leg?"

I shook my head. I couldn't explain. They'd think I was crazy. "I'll show you. Once we get to where we're going."

I glanced back at the supe. She stood at the bottom of the stairs with her pinkie shoved up a nostril. I turned back around trying not to imagine her coming up behind me and wiping her hand on my t-shirt.

At the top of the stairs, the store-coach unclipped his keys from his hip and unlocked the first door. He walked in and waved a hand at an old steel and faux leather chair in front of the desk.

"Sit," he said.

He settled down into his own swivel chair behind his desk. I stood there, looking down at the chair, dreading trying to bend down into it. Driving had been a bitch.

"I'd rather stand," I said.

The store-coach leaned forward, resting his elbows on the cheap-stainless-steel-and-wood-veneer desk. He laced his fingers together and set his weak chin on top of them. He locked eyes with me like a TV cop.

"You aren't getting me," he said. "It's not a request. You're going to sit."

I blinked. Here I just wanted to return the thing and he was going all Dirty Harry on me. I backed up to the chair, put my hands on the armrests and lowered myself into the seat. I tried to keep my legs straight out in front of me, but I felt the pressure in my pants grow. I clenched my teeth. The Boss wasn't happy.

The door to the office clicked shut. The supe leaned against the doorframe. Little bits of green clung to the tip of her fingernail.

"So," the store-coach said, "let's take this slow. You have a name?"

My mind chugged like an old car low on water. I didn't want to give him my real name. I still have hopes of getting out of there. "Jim Bean," I heard myself spitting out.

The store-coach pressed his lips to his knuckles. He didn't believe me. No drinking man would. He continued on with the next question.

"When did you do it?"

"This morning," I said. "Probably around 10."

"What section?"

"Pets."

His eyebrows shot up. He probably expected me to say "Electronics" or "Men's." What did he take me for, a petty thief? It's not like I walked in there wanting to take what I got.

"What were you doing in pets?" he said.

I looked down at his desk, finding sudden interest in the pattern of the veneer. "I pissed in the aquariums."

"What?" he said, slapping the desktop.

The sound resembled a gunshot. I winced as I jumped in my seat.

"Why'd you go and piss in my aquariums?" the store-coach said.

I continued to study the veneer. "I thought it would be funny."

"Was anyone with you?"

"No."

"Anyone see?"

"No."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Was it funny?"

With his last question, I looked up at him. "No. That's why I came back. I want to give it back."

"Give what back?"

"I don't know."

"You took something, and you don't even know what it is?" He blew out a heavy sigh. His breath smelled like ash. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. So where is this thing?"

I nodded down to my crotch. Now that I was sitting, the fabric bulged. I shifted uncomfortably in the seat.

"Is that why you've been walking all funny?" he said.

"Yes sir."

"And let me guess, you can't get it off."

"You've got it right," I said.

The store-coach let out a low whistle. He looked across at the supe standing behind me. She probably had a finger stuck halfway up her nose to her eyeballs.

"You don't have to stay around here for this, Maeve."

I glanced back at her. Her arms were down at her sides, but I thought I saw a bit of green on the end of her ring finger.

"I raised three boys, Dick," she said. "It's not like I'm going to see something I haven't seen before."

"Well, this being the workplace and all, I didn't want to put you into a situation you'd be taking as uncomfortable."

I gaped. Here they were worried about sexual harassment issues, and the Boss was about ready to check into ER. I cleared my throat. They both turned their attention toward me.

"Can I return this thing now?"

The manager spread his hands, palms up. "Show us what you've got."

"You mean you want me to pull my pants down?"

"If that's what it takes."

I chewed on the inside of my lip, then nodded. I couldn't see any other option.

"Yeah, I'll do it," I said. "But it'd be easier if I stood. Can I get a hand?"

"Sure."

The store-coach stood. He shoved his chair back against the wall, beneath a little window overlooking the sales floor. All I could see from my angle were the lights hanging from the ceiling like an armada of UFOs.

"Can you help?" the manager said, glancing at the supe.

"Sure." She wiped her hand against the doorframe and walked over to stand on my right.

When she bent to take my hand, I felt my eyes bug out. I didn't want her to touch me with her snot-encrusted diggers. I fought the urge to jerk away as she grabbed my hand.

"You can help as well you know," the supe said to me.

I swallowed hard and gripped her hand. The store-coach and the Neander-supe hefted me to my feet. I stumbled over to a steel bookcase loaded with binders and boxes. I held onto it to remain upright.

The store-coach leaned against the corner of his desk with his arms folded across his chest. Maeve sat down in the chair I had just vacated. Obviously, they weren't afraid of me running away. I stood, staring at my audience.

"Well," Maeve said, beckoning me to hurry with her digging hand.

I wiped my polluted hand down the bookcase as I looked down at the fly of my jeans. I felt dirty reaching down there after she'd just touched me. I wanted to wash my hands, but I didn't see it working out in these circumstances. I gripped the top my fly and fumbled with the button and zipper.

"You need a hand there?" the store-coach said.

I glanced up at him with a stare that told him to back off. He gave me an understanding nod. I continued on until my fly was open. I let my pants drop around my hips, not letting them fall all the way.

Maeve raised a painted eyebrow. I tried not to think about the fact that she sat only a few feet away from the Boss. I reached for the elastic band of my boxers and drew them down to the hem of my pants. I gathered both in my hands and lowered them to my knees, revealing the Boss and the freaking mutant cephalopod latched onto it.

It had too many tentacles to be a squid, and its blotchy red-and-black pattern reminded me of some poisonous South American frog. I hoped it wasn't poisonous. The thing wasn't like anything I'd ever seen on the Discovery Channel.

The store-coach sat with his mouth hanging open. The supe stared in fascination, licking the tip of her pinkie with her short stubby tongue. Neither seemed interested in speaking up.

"So will you take it back?" I said.

The manager drew his bushy eyebrows together in confusion. "You didn't get that thing here, did you?"

"When I pissed in the big tank, it reached out and wrapped itself around the Boss. I was so shocked I just shoved it in my pants and left."

The store-coach was careful to keep eye contact with me, not bothering to look down. "It won't come off?"

"I've been trying all day, but this thing's not letting go. So I came back. I want you to take it off."

"Well, we're not exactly fish experts," the store-coach said.

"It's your fucking fish out of your fucking pet department. I want it off." The words rushed out of me like a flash flood--out of nowhere, full of anger and thunder. I clenched my fists at my sides. Even the tentacles of the fish writhed.

"Whoa," the store-coach said. "Getting angry's not going to get you anywhere."

"Remaining calm doesn't seem to be doing anything for me."

I sucked in a sharp breath as I felt a new pang of pain between my legs. I began to tremble. When I spoke next, the anger was gone. "I think...it's eating the Boss."

My body lurched violently. My knees threatened to give out, but I kept upright, keeping hold of the bookcase.

"I'll get it off," Maeve said. Both the store-coach and I stared at her in surprise. "It's not like I haven't handled that part of a man's body before." She curved her lips to emphasize the innuendo over any motherly sense.

I shivered. I didn't want her touching me down there. I looked down at the thing. Its color had changed to match the pale pallor of my scrotum. It must have sensed the coming threat and was trying to hide. The creature wasn't an idiot, I'll give it that much.

"Well, go ahead, Maeve," I heard the store-coach say. My attention snapped up in time to catch his noncommittal shrug. "Since you have experience and all."

I cleared my throat. They turned their attention my way. "Excuse me, but if anyone's going to be coming near the Boss, I would rather have the coach here."

I stared at the manager, hoping he would get the hint and come to my rescue. His eyes got all watery. I suspected he wasn't going to be living up to my expectations.

"I've got a thing about fish...or just about anything that lives in the water," he said. A large shiver coursed through him. He bounced against the desk. "Bad enough I have to stand here. Touching that thing, that's out of the question. You've got either Maeve here, or we call an ambulance."

The scene of being carted across the front of the Weiner-Mart in a gurney played out in my mind. Rumors would fly. The story would get to the paper and the headline would read something like, "Fish Devours Man's Worm." I'd have to move to another state, maybe even another country.

I looked up at store-coach. I couldn't bring myself to even glance at the supe. I didn't need any help imagining her down between my legs.

"Okay," I said, "she can do it."

Without waiting a beat, Maeve dragged the chair forward. The legs grated along the linoleum.

I glanced down. I couldn't help it. I had to see what she was going to do to the Boss.

In her hand, she had a cheap pen, the kind you walk away with when you sign at the register. She pried one of its tentacles free. I groaned a little as I felt its suckers pull away from the Boss. Blood trickled in a tiny stream down its pasty body and into my jeans.

The supe grinned at me. She was showing way too many teeth as far as I was concerned.

"See, that's not so bad," she said.

Her breath smelled of rancid hot dogs. It threatened to overwhelm me. The bookcase swayed from my weight. I drew in a long, deep breath.

"You still have a few more to go," I managed to say.

Not deterred, Maeve went back to work. She got another tentacle free with the same pen. She then convinced the store-coach to hand her another. He sat down in his chair on the other side of his desk and rolled back into the far corner. He didn't look away. I'll give him that.

With the second pen, Maeve got a third tentacle free. At this point, the Boss was at full attention. I was thankful the mutant squid was hiding it from view. I didn't want the Neander-supe getting any ideas.

When she attempted to pull the fourth tentacle free, the creature took exception to its position. Its tentacles flexed. It ripped one of the pens from Maeve's hand and tucked it beneath itself, away from her reach.

Maeve shoved the pinkie of her free hand up her nose and looked down at the mutant, contemplating it. Cartilage and skin flexed as she rooted around inside. I wondered if it would burst through like a maggot from its meal.

The supe removed her finger from her nose and tossed other pen aside. She reached down for the creature with both hands.

"This might hurt a little," she said.

I shrieked. She was actually going to touch the Boss. She tucked her hands underneath the thing. I could feel the tips of her fingernails against my skin. The rivulets of blood running down my legs widened and little trails snaked down her arms. She glanced up at me, a smile spread across her lips. The freaking snot-lover was molesting me.

I let go of bookcase, ready to box her in the ear. The tentacles of the creature writhed. Its skin undulated bands of red and orange. It looked almost as mad as I was.

That's when the Neader-supe screamed. Not some measly squeal an actress would let loose in a B-grade flick. No this was the kind of scream a veteran opera singer could let loose. I wouldn't be surprised if people had heard it out on the loading dock.

She jerked from me, staring down at her hands. Only, they weren't there. All that remained were two knobs on the ends of her arms that resembled uncooked roasts. I looked down past the squid-thing. Not a single bit of flesh lay on the floor or in my pants. Only more blood pooled down into my jeans.

The store-coach sat in the corner, mouth gaping open. Eyes rolled up into his head.

"Fuck this," I said.

I reached down, pulled up my pants up and secured my fly. I brushed past the supe toward the door. Squid-thing felt less out of place than before.

Turning back to the managers, I said, "Thanks, but I don't think it wants to be returned."

I shut the door after me. As I proceeded down the stairs, my stride felt more natural, like the mutant attached to the Boss wasn't a problem at all. Unwanted it might be, I thought I could live with it.

I could even give it a name.