Grocery

And I'm off to Gen Con! No, not as any kind of guest of honor, unless you count running enough games to get a GM's badge. I think you need more than four non-blood-relation fans before you get to be a guest of honor. At least five, I'm sure. Anyway, we *should* have internet access at the hotel, but we *might* not, so again, please be forgiving of any delays which may or may not occur. And if you're going to be there too (and I'm not already, say, sharing a hotel room with you), feel free to drop by and say hello.

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Burnson was at low ebb. Seventeen irate customers firmly believing the “no refunds, returns, or exchanges” policy surely didn’t apply to them.

He saw a customer in Produce. “You don’t want us, miss. We’re spoiled,” said a tomato.

“Oh,” said the woman, crestfallen. She moved to replace the fruit.

“Ma’am,” said Burnson shortly. He pointed at the large print sign directly above the display. It read: “PLEASE DISREGARD ALL STATEMENT’S FROM TOMATOE’S OR CUCUMBER’S.”

“Oh!” The woman smiled and tucked the tomato into her bag. Burnson turned away, ignoring the tomato’s vile curses. “They never read the signs,” he muttered.