Prank-Kings

One afternoon Fernando sits at his desk and a pickup truck pulls up. This truck is outfitted with an stereo system which blasts a country music song at ludicrous volume, accompanied by the lovely rattle of the truck's rust-spotted metal chassis and the unhealthy gurgling rumble of an ill-kept muffler; variables which, if summed together, would value the vehicle at no more than $3000.

As a side-note for all you budding lyricists who follow my every written edict, the words “tractor” and “faster” do not, in fact, make for a palatable rhyme, no matter how much one might drawl them out. Don't do it.

Three unknown teenaged rapscallions pile out and crowd into the store, of course leaving the truck and its dulcet serenade running. They giggle and push each around as they cross the foyer and head into the store proper. Fernando feels obligated to greet them, so he does. “Hello.”

They look at each other and share a chortle and move beyond the new release rack, into the back corners of the store. Fernando stands and moves to the archway separating his headquarters from the rental racks, leaning against the wall.

The teens gallivant and don't look to be doing anything productive. At one point they huddle together and palaver in a quiet murmur, then move as a group into the extreme rear of the store, near the door to Fernando's inner sanctum. The Keeper perks up and keeps his steely gaze on his guests.

But no, they obey the sign posted upon the otherwise impenetrable barrier. Instead they crowd around a nook immediately adjacent to the door, the one in which Fernando's thermostat dwells. Their bodies coupled with the arrangement of the rental racks prevent Fernando from directly seeing what manner of travesty they sow, but whatever it is takes only a few seconds, before they skitter back up the aisle, all in a row and all with shit-eating grins on their faces. The leader of this pack, an acne-faced and sandy-haired lad with a wiry build, says to Fernando, “Couldn't find nothing.” He even has the good sense to give a halfhearted shrug, as if apologizing.

Fernando arches an eyebrow and tracks them as they navigate his labyrinth of racks to the foyer and front door, whereupon they exit. The pickup's doors creak and moan as they clamber into their pimping ride and trundle off with a sickly harrumph. Jason Aldean-or-whoeverthefuck's bad music becomes a drone which dissipates into sweet silence.

Fernando walks to the back of his store to check out what so amused the lads. He found that the dial on his thermostat had been turned up, beyond the eighty degree mark.

“Well done,” Fernando drily says, placing a fingertip on the corrugated plastic and twisting the dial back to 60.

As the Keeper turns and returns to his lonely vigil, he adds for the benefit of no one in particular, “Might've worked better if you checked that the damn thing was on in the first place. Idiots.”