The Plaid Pantry squatted in its small lot on the corner of two busy streets. The vapor lights in the parking lot cast a ghostly orange palor upon all that sat beneath. The scene was still; serene.
We sliced through the dead, pale parking lot on silent phantom wheels, our V brakes hissing as we pulled ourselves short of hitting the curb of the front walk. We dismounted, one staying behind to mind the steeds while the other and I entered the foul domicile of evil enterprise. The counter-slave stood docile and attentive to the whims of the money machine in front of him as we made our way back to the wine shelves. We soon found the item we had come for: A 1.5 litre bottle of Casarsa Merlot. We decided upon a diversion.
"What is your cheapest twelve pack of beer?" We asked the horrid little capitalist slave behind the dirty counter.
"What a minute..." He said, picking up a book of alcohol prices and beginning to flip through it. As he did so, we grabbed the Casarsa and headed toward the counter.
"Never mind, we have that which we desire." We said as we made our way from the counter to the door.
"HEY! COME BACK HERE! I'LL CALL THE POLICE!" The poor, poor man's vapid threats disipated into the night as we rode away in victory.