Car Trader Leech

by James MacLaren

More leech people. God, but ain’t there enough of them out there already? Guess not.

We ain’t got a proper magazine rack, but we DO got a little stand with those damnable car trader, boat trader, cycle trader, you name the motherfucker trader magazines in it.

You know the ones, got a zillion little b&w pictures of broken down clunky crap that folks couldn’t sell at the garage sale and have decided to pimp in these little magazines.

Expensive junk.

There’s a whole little subculture of white trash idiots that swirls around these ridiculous publications. All of ‘em gonna get rich quick, buying and selling worthless junk to people even stupider than themselves. If that’s possible.

And, being the bottom feeding cheapo bastards that they are, they tend to attempt to get something for nothing in the Inconvenience Store.

Our rack is right next to the damn door.

And brother (it’s always a guy) Leech stands RIGHT THERE, in front of the damn door, flipping pages and attempting to read and memorize a zillion ads before I’ve had enough of his shit to call him down on it.

These fucks NEVER ask to have a look in the trader magazine. Oh no, they just sorta ease on over to it and pick it up just as casual as can be, thinking in the back of their tiny little brain that perhaps I won’t notice or take offense that they’ve successfully barricaded that little old lady from entering or exiting the damn store.

Hum de dum, just reading along.

“Excuse me, but are you going to buy the magazine?”

Dagger stare in my direction, but the magazine stays in Leech’s hands.

“If you’re not going to be purchasing the magazine, I’m going to have to ask you to put it down.”

“What’s your problem, buddy?”

“I don’t have a problem, but you’ve either got to purchase the magazine or return it to the rack.”

“Look here pal, I’m in this store every day and I spend all kinds of money in here. Do you want me to take my business elsewhere?”

“I want you to either purchase the magazine or return it to the rack.”

“Fucking jerk!” and the magazine is stuffed down into a slot, pages creased and folded every whichaway. Brother Leech storms out of the store with a nasty remark on his lips, nearly knocking down the old lady who was trying to work her way past his worthless ass.

Guess he’s not gonna get rich quick tonight.

Fuck off, asshole.