coffee

Buffalo Alberts was humming softly behind the wheel of his truck, humming itself as it rolled down the highway.  His broken radio had been no good at entertaining him for so long, he couldn't remember the last time he'd used it.  Didn't bother him, though.  Singing to himself kept him more awake.  Better than coffee, even.  But speaking of which, it was time to find himself a refill.  He'd been running on fumes for about 80 miles now.

He pulled off into a little service station, with just four pumps, all looking shiny and new, and parked next to the door.  Clear, clean, automatic doors.  Nice.  He nodded his head approvingly as he entered.  The young man behind the counter looked up as Buffalo came down the aisle.  Well, young man - just a boy really.  He had acne and a scrawny teenager's mustache.  Buffalo tried to give him a dignified but condescending look as he went passed.  Tripping on his undone bootlace did not add to his planned effect.  Although he avoided falling flat on his face, he couldn't help cursing to himself as he made his way to the back of the store, where the drink machines were.  While filling his travel mug, he snuck a glance over his shoulder, as if he was just taking a leisurely look around the store and rubbing his grizzled chin nonchalantly.  The boy's gaze was lowered to the counter and some paper lying spread out on it.
"Well, damn it," Buffalo thought, "doesn't that boy have a sense of humor?  If I'da seen him stumbling around like a dumbass I sure as hell woulda laughed."  Steaming black coffee now filled the mug and the man snapped the lid back on.  As he walked to the counter, he gave the store a final lookover.  Not a soul about.  Perfect.  Buffalo never was a fan of complications.  Stepping up to the counter, he pulled his pistol out from under his shirt and with his coffee stained grin, said in a jovial voice, "Alright buddy, this is what's gonna happen.  I'm not gonna pay for this coffee.  Nobody oughta pay for gas station coffee anyway, it's shit.  What's more, you're gonna pay me not to shoot you right in the gut.  Open that register and hand over some cash."  The boy's face was frozen into a mask of surprise.
"You want all of it?"
"Aw, hell, why wouldn't I want all of it?  Well, now that you mention it, not all the coins.  Just the bills.  Just gimme some quarters for the tolls."  The boy obeyed in a robotic manner, opening the cash drawer, carefully removing the bills and putting them together in a stack before slowly handing them over.  Then he fished several quarters out of the drawer and dropped them into Buffalo's outstretched hand.  His face had an incredulous, but perversely joyful smile, as if this was an event he had imagined but never quite believed he would experience.
"I don't get the impression that your corporate masters have impressed the importance of money on you," laughed the man as he deposited his toll coins into the pocket of his shirt.  "You seem practically happy to give it away."
"There isn't that much cash," the boy replied almost apologetically, "and they tell us during training not to confront robbers.  Just give them what they ask for and don't antagonize."
"Always service with a smile, huh?" Then Buffalo let his face harden into what he hoped was a cold and threatening glare.  "So they're caught off-guard when the police come after you push the alarm button under the counter."
The boy's expression was now more one of panicked confusion.  "What?  No!  No, there's no button, there's no alarm, the cops are supposed to come by regularly.  I can't call them, I swear to god!"
The man nodded slowly as he moved towards the door keeping his pistol pointed in the boy's direction.  "Well, I'll believe you this time.  But there better not be any cops on my tail down the road.  I'll shake them off, and then I'll come back to get you for lying to me."
"I'm so not lying, I swear to god!" the boy sobbed.
"Alright then," grunted the man, backing slowly out the door after he heard it swoosh open behind him.  He was just about to walk calmly to his truck when he realized his freshly filled travel mug was still on the counter where he'd left it so he would have a free hand to grab the cash.  He strode back into the store, boomed out, "Forgot my coffee," and shot the startled cashier right in the middle of his forehead.  He leaned over the counter after the body fell, searching the underside with his fingers and eyes carefully.  "Well, god damn it, he wasn't lying about not having a button," he muttered to himself.  "Oh well."

Heaving himself back onto his feet, Buffalo Alberts took up his mug, tucked his gun back into his grungy jeans and walked to his rusty truck that was waiting patiently to take him to his next stop.