Fatale Abstraction

Once before I paid the damned thing off, I farted around and waited until the last day to make a payment on the Discover card, so I went to a Sears store in Dallas to remit at a cash register. I generally detest malls and loathe Sears in particular, so I plastered on a smile that was two tics from a grimace, so as not to belie my discomfort to the sundry unfortunates loving their grand day out at the mall. The register was about 30 yards from the door, and I marched resolutely toward it, relieved to see there was one person being waited on and no line behind her. Ahead and to the right, I noticed a couple noticing me, and hastening to the register also. I slowed my pace and allowed them to take their place behind the woman who I could now hear was struggling with the English language whilst emphatically questioning the cashier about a returned item. The couple appeared of Latinate extraction, and shuffling out from under a clothing rack came (no! not goblins!) two small children who looked as though they and had been used to tidy up the floor at a porn cinema then dipped in flour and cinnamon, with the issue of sinal lavage ever streaming down their crusty upper lips. I tried to breathe shallowly, knowing that tuberculosis is rampant in third world countries. The woman stood the required distance behind her man as the fruits of their loins squealed and soiled merchandise far and wide. A tall rack of fedoras stood to my right, most of them adorned with feathers, until at last the little demons noticed them. The future felon and incubator came over to the rack and began plucking the feathers from the hats. I must have gasped, because the woman turned around and looked at me, and I pointed to the male pup and said "Is that yours?" She spoke to her man, and he chastened the hellions, who simmered down immediately and looked at me with ovine stupidity. That's right. I'm "the man."