Great tracts of neon and
fluorescent lights that
leech away color to make
everything a uniform,
dull gray indicate that
you have arrived at the
home of synth-alcohol,
soykaf, porno-simchips,
Holohayo 3D greeting cards,
pneumatic fluid for your
bike, cheap fetish trinkets
for the magical wannabes,
soygrits, and a full line of
stuffers with no redeeming
nutritional or social value.
Yep, the good ol’ Stuffer
Shack, home to a smell
you can’t recognize (and
probably don’t want to)
and thousands of nuyen
worth of stomach-rotting
chow. As an added benefit,
it’s open 24-7-365.
The store clerk is flipping
through a holo-zine as
his girlfriend sits on a
stool next to the counter
babbling incessantly about
her completely uneventful
day. A young couple in full
punk regalia is shopping
sullenly for cat food. A thin
nervous man searches the
ice-cream cases frantically
as though his life hung in
the balance.
In other words, everything
is normal for a Stuffer
Shack, even at 4 am.