THE BARREL O’ KRABS SEAFOOD SHACKE
Oct. 26th, 2014 08:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayasoSeason 9, Week 26
“Crabs In A Barrel”
“It’s fucking hot inside this goddamned crab suit,” cursed Ba’al to himself, “but it was nice of Mr. Sarkasian to hire me.” Not everyone was open-minded enough to hire a demon for the summer, especially a teenager with a name like his, although, really, was “Ba’al” any worse than “Jesus”? Still, it was the final week of summer and the last day of this hellish job, one that had cost him his girlfriend, Asmoday, not to mention his dignity.
Handing out leaflets in front of the Barrel O’ Krabs Seafood Shacke was embarrassing enough, but Mr. Sarkasian had told Ba’al he must “always, always, you hear?” wear the crab suit to and from work, even on the hottest days. Of course he’d heard, he wasn’t an idiot, and Ba’al knew that Mr. Sarkasian didn’t want people to know he’d hired a demon kid, even to wear a foam-rubber crab suit with “Krabby” written on it.
Naturally, his parents refused to drive him to work (“It’s within biking distance, so bike!”), so the sight of Ba’al riding his bicycle in a crab suit quickly became a neighborhood event. “Next year, school is going to be hell.” Even being a senior wouldn't erase the damage of his summer job, especially without Asmoday, but somehow, being cool no longer mattered as much; after all, it was only one step removed from being a hipster.
“Asmoday never asked what it was like in that suit,” he thought. As a demon, Ba’al couldn’t sweat, but that sure wasn’t true of his honored human predecessors, and the combination of teen sweat, body sprays, and old Krabburgers (“Best Ever!” – “hell, the only ones ever!”) could be pretty strong inside the suit. Still, since demon-breath, no, teen demon breath, was pretty foul, Ba’al knew he was contributing to the aromatic history of the suit, which gave him some satisfaction. It was kind of like marking his territory: “Ba’al was here.”
Ba’al started going with Asmoday the last three months of his junior year, and his friends were in awe. She really filled out that tight blue dress, broad in all the right places (“two big horns on top and a tight little tail behind,” Ba’al sighed) with scales so shiny they almost glowed in the dark. Despite his best efforts, however, Ba’al had never seen Asmoday in the dark; at first, he'd thought it was her parents, but now he knew it had been Asmoday, and especially the crab suit. “Fuck her and double-fuck that miserable suit!”
Asmoday had never wanted Ba’al to work at the Barrel, but he didn’t have many choices for a summer job. “She never understood, and her parents were rich, so she didn’t have to work.” It was either the Barrel O’ Krabs, or scaring kids down at the beach as part of the decrepit Caves of Hell tourist attraction.
With one of the few remaining indigenous demon populations, Poco La Pie used to be a popular destination during summer vacation, but its time had long since passed. “Beaches and freaks -- what could be better? Now I know how the Amish kids feel. Maybe I should have moved to Pennsylvania and become Amish; I’m halfway there -- Mom and Dad didn’t let me do anything fun. Farming would have been way better than wearing a foam crab suit during a Florida summer.”
Ba’al always knew that Mr. Sarkasian wasn’t just being a nice guy when he hired him, although he was a good man. Mr. Sarkasian was a shrewd businessman; if Poco La Pie had a prime business area, the Barrel wasn’t in it. It was too far from the beach and too close to a McDonald’s, the bane of Mr. Sarkasian’s entrepreneurial life. Still, the Barrel had its loyal customers, mostly older, but Mr. Sarkasian wanted more, and younger, so he hired a teen demon. Of course, Ba’al was hidden inside a crab costume, but that didn’t matter.
As a result, that summer a few more demons came to eat at the Barrel, and then Mr. Sarkasian made sure to spread the word to the tourists that the Barrel was a demon hangout, so the tourists came to see the demons. It was good for business, and Ba’al had a job—one he detested. “Asmoday never ate there, even with my discount.”
Asmoday’s family dined at Le Grille, which wasn’t exactly upscale, because Pico didn’t have an upscale. But Pico had downscale, lots of it, and the Barrel O’ Krabs was mired there; few inhabitants minded, because most of them were downscale as well, and it suited them.
Demons were not very sociable as a rule, but if any place could be said to be a demon hangout, it would have to be Sal’s Chicken ‘N Ribs. Demons liked things crunchy, especially bones, and Krabburgers (even double deep-fried with extra crispy bacon) were too soft. Besides, Sal’s BBQ Sauce (“Hotter’n Hell!") was pretty good and he was even willing to serve the ribs extra rare, in spite of the health code. Since Sal wasn’t over-particular about the cleanliness regulations, the health code was just an “elastic guideline,” as he put it. Plus, he knew that demons couldn’t get trichinosis.
Sal, like most people, was a little unclear about the local demons. They had no relation to Satan’s minions, and in fact were very, very distant relatives of mankind. Homo sapiens and demonicus sapiens had fallen out of the same hominid tree, but had gone different ways. Still, go far enough back, and there was even a tiny bit of demon DNA in the precious human code. It appeared that Man’s ancestors didn’t get together with only the Neanderthals for a little wingding now and then.
Two weeks before the end of summer, Asmoday made it official by dumping Ba’al. She did it over lunch at Le Grille (“My treat,” she said, “you’ll like it.”) and she didn’t wear her blue dress. Ba’al supposed she was sympathetic and kind, but all he could remember was “blah blah crab suit blah me blah the Barrel blah me me.” Demons couldn’t cry and until then, Ba’al had never understood it.
It had been a long, sad bike ride home.
At the end of his final day, Ba’al got to hand in the crab suit for the last time. That made him feel better. Mr. Sarkasian gave him a small bonus (“Don’t spend it all in one place!”) for being so reliable, and a week after that his senior year started. With the worst summer ever behind him, it all felt good.
Until the inevitable happened.
“Hey Krabby, where’s your bicycle?” It was from a freshman. Someone else called him Krabman, and of course it stuck. Soon, the halls were a nightmare of snickering. Students imitated eyestalks or made pincer-claw motions at Ba'al every time he went past. Asmoday and her friends just giggled and turned away.
Summer had seemed like hell, but Ba'al had been wrong. His true hell was just beginning.
“Crabs In A Barrel”
“It’s fucking hot inside this goddamned crab suit,” cursed Ba’al to himself, “but it was nice of Mr. Sarkasian to hire me.” Not everyone was open-minded enough to hire a demon for the summer, especially a teenager with a name like his, although, really, was “Ba’al” any worse than “Jesus”? Still, it was the final week of summer and the last day of this hellish job, one that had cost him his girlfriend, Asmoday, not to mention his dignity.
Handing out leaflets in front of the Barrel O’ Krabs Seafood Shacke was embarrassing enough, but Mr. Sarkasian had told Ba’al he must “always, always, you hear?” wear the crab suit to and from work, even on the hottest days. Of course he’d heard, he wasn’t an idiot, and Ba’al knew that Mr. Sarkasian didn’t want people to know he’d hired a demon kid, even to wear a foam-rubber crab suit with “Krabby” written on it.
Naturally, his parents refused to drive him to work (“It’s within biking distance, so bike!”), so the sight of Ba’al riding his bicycle in a crab suit quickly became a neighborhood event. “Next year, school is going to be hell.” Even being a senior wouldn't erase the damage of his summer job, especially without Asmoday, but somehow, being cool no longer mattered as much; after all, it was only one step removed from being a hipster.
“Asmoday never asked what it was like in that suit,” he thought. As a demon, Ba’al couldn’t sweat, but that sure wasn’t true of his honored human predecessors, and the combination of teen sweat, body sprays, and old Krabburgers (“Best Ever!” – “hell, the only ones ever!”) could be pretty strong inside the suit. Still, since demon-breath, no, teen demon breath, was pretty foul, Ba’al knew he was contributing to the aromatic history of the suit, which gave him some satisfaction. It was kind of like marking his territory: “Ba’al was here.”
Ba’al started going with Asmoday the last three months of his junior year, and his friends were in awe. She really filled out that tight blue dress, broad in all the right places (“two big horns on top and a tight little tail behind,” Ba’al sighed) with scales so shiny they almost glowed in the dark. Despite his best efforts, however, Ba’al had never seen Asmoday in the dark; at first, he'd thought it was her parents, but now he knew it had been Asmoday, and especially the crab suit. “Fuck her and double-fuck that miserable suit!”
Asmoday had never wanted Ba’al to work at the Barrel, but he didn’t have many choices for a summer job. “She never understood, and her parents were rich, so she didn’t have to work.” It was either the Barrel O’ Krabs, or scaring kids down at the beach as part of the decrepit Caves of Hell tourist attraction.
With one of the few remaining indigenous demon populations, Poco La Pie used to be a popular destination during summer vacation, but its time had long since passed. “Beaches and freaks -- what could be better? Now I know how the Amish kids feel. Maybe I should have moved to Pennsylvania and become Amish; I’m halfway there -- Mom and Dad didn’t let me do anything fun. Farming would have been way better than wearing a foam crab suit during a Florida summer.”
Ba’al always knew that Mr. Sarkasian wasn’t just being a nice guy when he hired him, although he was a good man. Mr. Sarkasian was a shrewd businessman; if Poco La Pie had a prime business area, the Barrel wasn’t in it. It was too far from the beach and too close to a McDonald’s, the bane of Mr. Sarkasian’s entrepreneurial life. Still, the Barrel had its loyal customers, mostly older, but Mr. Sarkasian wanted more, and younger, so he hired a teen demon. Of course, Ba’al was hidden inside a crab costume, but that didn’t matter.
As a result, that summer a few more demons came to eat at the Barrel, and then Mr. Sarkasian made sure to spread the word to the tourists that the Barrel was a demon hangout, so the tourists came to see the demons. It was good for business, and Ba’al had a job—one he detested. “Asmoday never ate there, even with my discount.”
Asmoday’s family dined at Le Grille, which wasn’t exactly upscale, because Pico didn’t have an upscale. But Pico had downscale, lots of it, and the Barrel O’ Krabs was mired there; few inhabitants minded, because most of them were downscale as well, and it suited them.
Demons were not very sociable as a rule, but if any place could be said to be a demon hangout, it would have to be Sal’s Chicken ‘N Ribs. Demons liked things crunchy, especially bones, and Krabburgers (even double deep-fried with extra crispy bacon) were too soft. Besides, Sal’s BBQ Sauce (“Hotter’n Hell!") was pretty good and he was even willing to serve the ribs extra rare, in spite of the health code. Since Sal wasn’t over-particular about the cleanliness regulations, the health code was just an “elastic guideline,” as he put it. Plus, he knew that demons couldn’t get trichinosis.
Sal, like most people, was a little unclear about the local demons. They had no relation to Satan’s minions, and in fact were very, very distant relatives of mankind. Homo sapiens and demonicus sapiens had fallen out of the same hominid tree, but had gone different ways. Still, go far enough back, and there was even a tiny bit of demon DNA in the precious human code. It appeared that Man’s ancestors didn’t get together with only the Neanderthals for a little wingding now and then.
Two weeks before the end of summer, Asmoday made it official by dumping Ba’al. She did it over lunch at Le Grille (“My treat,” she said, “you’ll like it.”) and she didn’t wear her blue dress. Ba’al supposed she was sympathetic and kind, but all he could remember was “blah blah crab suit blah me blah the Barrel blah me me.” Demons couldn’t cry and until then, Ba’al had never understood it.
It had been a long, sad bike ride home.
At the end of his final day, Ba’al got to hand in the crab suit for the last time. That made him feel better. Mr. Sarkasian gave him a small bonus (“Don’t spend it all in one place!”) for being so reliable, and a week after that his senior year started. With the worst summer ever behind him, it all felt good.
Until the inevitable happened.
“Hey Krabby, where’s your bicycle?” It was from a freshman. Someone else called him Krabman, and of course it stuck. Soon, the halls were a nightmare of snickering. Students imitated eyestalks or made pincer-claw motions at Ba'al every time he went past. Asmoday and her friends just giggled and turned away.
Summer had seemed like hell, but Ba'al had been wrong. His true hell was just beginning.
