Mister Jenkins took out his pocket square and began methodically cleaning his spectacles. A coping mechanism born out of decades of silent frustration dealing with the unwashed masses.
“Old man, you gonna put Pepsi in my popcorn bucket, or what?” asked the vulgar adolescent.
His fraudulent claim of being a rewards member was already offensive. But to then demand this unholy concoction? A bridge much too far.
“I could but won’t,” said the theater manager as he slipped on his glasses, glaring at the dimwitted teenager.
Jeremiah Jenkins then smiled. After all these years, he had finally found his hill.
The Weekday One Hundred 