I knew everything went south the moment everything went south. I know that super hindsight as a superpower is lame and all, but my other option was to see people's future by looking them in the eyes, and that's a protagonist's power, and I ain't about that life. 

As for why I have super hindsight, let's just say that it is a deal I now regret. Turns out you can just buy a Klondike bar anywhere and don't have to stake your existence on it like the commercials say.

"What was that?" says Leila-Sue, still holding her arm like someone waiting for a blood transfusion. 

"What was what?" I say, faking ignorance. 

"That harrowing scream," she says. "Like someone calling for help, just beyond that weird vending machine." 

"No, nothing of the sort," I say. "Maybe it was the freezer condenser starting up. It does make a weird, scream-like sound when starting up." 

And that is a fact that might as well be a truth. Before having this dream to become a Customer Service Rep, I had a very different dream: refrigeration engineer. Meaning, fixing fridges. I mean, plumbers get all the hot milfs all the time, and air conditioner repairmen tend to be murderers more often than not. A fridge repairman? I thought they could blend in nicely, not being noticed, and living a quiet life. 

Only, I didn't account for people leaving cut up body parts inside their fridges in broad daylight. Seems like being a fridge repairman is the best way to find out who is a cannibal. You just open fridges all day and see a perfectly cut face staring back at you next to the eggs and cheese. 

And before you ask: yes, most rich folks are cannibals. Humans are the most dangerous game, after all.  

Leila-Sue, however, doesn't seem to buy it, as she, still clutching her arms like a toddler showing where Little Timmy bit them, because Little Timmy's family are the owners of a huge medical facility and can get super cheap meat with utmost discretion, thus giving him a taste of human flesh that it is not satisfied by mere cold corpses, and what were we talking about? Kinda got lost. Again, every rich folk is a cannibal. That's how they keep their teeth white. 

"No, I reckon it was a scream," she says, putting her ear against the vending machine. 

Lucky for me, only the sweet humming of that 12v gear motor can be heard. Great for drinks, but not that good for limbs.  

"You must be hearing things," I say. 

She looks at me like one would look at the sun — with wonder, contempt, and the feeling that it is gaslighting you. No, I will not apologize for my pun. I intend my puns like the man I am. 

"Of course, I heard things, and the thing I heard was a scream," she says. "And it definitely came from behind this thing. What did you call it? Ve-ending machine?" 

Her eyes are sincere, and yet so dumb. She reminds me of a puppy standing on her own urine, desperate, and cross-eyed. "You've never seen a vending machine?" 

"I was homeschooled," she says, all while tapping the side of the vending machine. 

"Wasn't your whole backstory thing about you coming home from school to find your parents dead?" 

"I was in my room taking a test," she says, now licking the vending machine. In any other moment, I would remind her how many germs and bacteria would be sitting there, making bear and other icky stuff, but let's be real, nobody ever buys LaCroix consciously. And much less one that only seems to sell LaCroix Pure, which is basically pretentious water, something that only cannibals would drink. 

Hu, that's interesting though. Why does a school that can't even buy Dr. Pepper has a LaCroix vending machine that only sells flat LaCroix of all things? Seems suspiciously like plot to me, which means, I have to get out of here, asap.

"And you didn't hear anything?" I say. "Seems like if your parents were being super duper killed, you would've listened." 

"Oh, I'm deaf," she says, tonguing the place where you put the quarters. "This has been used recently. I can taste the quarters." 

"Wait, if you're deaf, how can you hear me?" I ask. 

She turns to me with those big hazel eyes of her, shimmering against the artificial fluorescent ceiling lights littered with dead moths and bugs, and points at them. The eyes, not the dead moths. "I just read the dialogue. I eat lots of carrots."

"What?"

"What?" she repeats. 

And that's the end of that conversation. Whatever the case, I have to move this along. 

"Look, how about I buy you a can of bourgeoisie water and we can move this along? There are many things to see in this hallway, like that weird cockroach stuck to the ceiling that doesn't move," I say, pointing at said cockroach. I call it Fajita. 

She looks up at it, then back at the machine, and back at the cockroach again. If I didn't know any better, I would say she is monologuing. She doesn't strike me as a protagonist.

"I guess," she says. "Never had a LaCroix before. How does it taste?" 

"Like disappointment," I say. "But at least it is harmless."

I put in the money and punch up the numbers, hearing that sweet condenser purr like a well-oiled machine. Almost too well oiled. Crap, did I fuck up?

The purring intensifies, more than any condenser has a right to do. It goes from gentle kitten, to jaguar, to a Lambo Jaguar, all in the span of a second. A row of lights and sounds, bopping and beeping and even a'bapping begins to emanate from the frigid case as the ground itself shakes by the cacophonic force. 

The vending machine begins to slide over to the left as if to say, look at me, for I bring the plot! Of course the secret entrance to the secret cultist, possibly cannibalistic basement is behind the LaCroix Pure vending machine. Only those crazy enough would waste their money on it. Curse my sexy brain!

I want to say that nothing is behind the vending machine, and it only did that for the memes. But life is not that simple. In life, there is always something behind the vending machine. 

In this case, there is a kid, standing just behind it. Maybe a middle-school kid, maybe younger. There is nothing discernible weird about him whatsoever, were it not for the torrent of blood spewing from his mouth.

"I don't feel so good," says the kid, falling face first in front of us. 

I'm not going to see the end of this, don't I?

"Ayden!" yells Leila-Sue, kneeling in front of the kid. "Go get the nurse, quick!" 

Hey, a chance to get away! No mind if I do.

"No, wait, don't!" she says. "This kid surely just got away from the cultists. Which means that they might still be there! We need to go down now and stop the cultist before they sacrifice more people to create the philosopher's stone! Did I tell you that they have to sacrifice people to make-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I interrupt. "I saw Fullmetal Alchemist. And shouldn't we call the cops? I mean, we already know the entrance, and nobody makes this cool an entrance just to make a lame exit." 

"Cops my ass!" she says. "Defund the police or die, bitch. If you don't wanna follow me, that's fine-"

"Okay, I'll stay then," I interrupt yet again like the dastardly bitch I am. 

"But-" she begins to say, but I interrupt yet again. 

"Nope, you said it was okay. No take-backsies!" I say. 

She looks quite frustrated, sure hoping I would be his knight in shining armor, but armor is heavy, and I already have plot armor for being a protagonist. Who's gonna shine that? 

"Fine, I'll go alone," she says. "You get the kid to safety in the meantime."

That, I can do. I give her a knowing nod, and she gives it back. We do this back and forth for no apparent reason than to be funny, possibly with some epic music in the background, as she stands up, almost slips on a puddle of blood, and disappears down the dark LaCroix corridor. Say that three times in a row. 

At least I dodged going down and help her do whatever she was going to do. Kill some cultist? Whatever. 

I prepare myself to pick up the bleeding kid when an even more horrible scream comes from the hall. This one is female, with a slight drawl. 

Goddamit, they got her. 

I have a choice to make: either I go down and find her, or stay with the bleeding kid and help him. 

Honestly, kids are icky. I don't want blood on my hands, both figuratively, and literally. I mean, I could run away, but then people will ask questions on why the girl I was showing around suddenly disappeared, and this one would be the third one this year. The police won't buy the cultist story again. 

I make a small prayer to Saint John Bosco, protecting me from the plot, and enter the dark corridor. The vending machine closes behind me almost immediately, leaving me in the dark. The darkest dark. The even darker. But not enough not to see Leila-Sue by the vending machine door, with a smile from ear to ear. 

"Aw, shucks, you do care, ain't you?" she says. 

She tricked me! She used my own innocence against me! 

"Well, now that you're here," she says, grabbing my shoulder and patting it twice, "why don't we go check out this whole mess, don't we?" 

I feel used. I need a shower, a comfort blanket, and hot cocoa.