Late Fee

Mike didn't know what it was about the video store's electronic door chime that caused his spine to rattle, but it did. Maybe the effect was heightened by the fact that he was trying to slip in unobserved, loaded as he was with three absurdly late DVDs. There was no drop slot, and so offenders had no choice but to face the wrath of the shop owner. He kept telling himself to switch to the big chain video store, with its slack-jawed teenage staff, who couldn't care less about your late fees, but he hated the crowds there, and it was just that much further away. And he was lazy. Lazy and forgetful. So here he was, steeling himself for the dressing down he would receive from Prakash, a man who seemed to be his best friend (when his account was in order) and his personal Spanish Inquisition (when it was not).
Just recovering from the auditory assault of the made-in-hell door chime, the first thing that entered his field of vision in the tight entry-alcove was the new releases poster. Dread as he may the upcoming verbal assault, some things were just habit, and he uttered school-girlish "Ooh" of surprise when he spotted an art-house flick he was eagerly anticipating on the poster. Two more weeks. Oh well: on to the gallows, he thought.
He pushed through the second door that brought him into the shop proper, and as he swung round towards the desk, a variety of familiar sights panned though his view: magazine rack, birthday card display, trinkets and tchotchke shelf, racks and racks of videos, gum rack, then, finally, the counter... His gaze dropped to the floor, and he tightened his grip on the late DVDs as he trudged up to it. When he finally lifted his head, his gaze was met by a man who was one hundred percent not Prakash.
In fact, this man could not possibly be more unlike the squat, jowly Bangladeshi. While Prakash was always well dressed, the man behind the counter seemed more fit for a funeral than the peddling of cheap entertainment, black sunglasses and all. Immediately, Mike thought of Tommy Lee Jones from the Men in Black movies, and then of Hugo Weaving, from the Matrix. He decided that if this man spoke in either a texas drawl, or the oddly affected accent from the Matrix, he would know that someone was having him on.
"May I help you?"
British... he was not sure whether this made him feel better or not.
"Uh ... well, I guess so. Um, where's Prakash?"
"He is ... indisposed."
The pause the man inserted here was the kind used in bad movies, when a genteel yet evil character was purposefully indicating that a polite word was being used to replace several less polite, but more accurate ones.
"Perhaps I may be of assistance."
"Oh. Um, ok. Well, I've got these videos, and they're a bit late."
Mike could not tell what the man's eyes were doing under the glasses, but there certainly had been a change in configuration in his brow. Mike felt as though he had suddenly spiked a fever, and his hands began to sweat onto the plastic DVD cases.
"If you would be so kind as to present them for scanning please."
Mike held them out.
"On the counter please. Side by side. Barcodes up, please."
Gob-smacked by this strange man, Mike did as he was told. And the man produced the barcode reader from beneath the counter. His arm moved in a wide, exaggerated arc, in order to place the reader directly above the barcode, articulating his wrist in a manner which was just, well, odd. This whole experience was, well, odd, he thought.
The man looked at the store computer and said: "Ah yes. Indeed. I see."
"What?" said Mike, sensing hope.
"May I see your card please?" asked the man. "Right, no problem," said Mike. He couldn't remember the last time Prakash asked him for his card, and he wasn't sure he would find it in the morass of his absurdly massive wallet, but after some time, he fished it out, "here you go."
The man walked two steps and placed the card in a shredder. Mike blinked.
"Mr Shibley," the man said, turning back towards Mike, "you understand that when you signed your membership agreement, you entered into a legal contract with this corporation?"
"Corporation?" Mike retorted, looking around the crammed shop, slightly bemused.
"And that the terms of this contract require remedy in the case of an account as ... unreasonably delinquent ... as yours."
"You mean, like, a fine? Or something? Of course, sure," Mike said, reaching again for the pregnant wallet.
"No, I'm afraid. At this point, the only reasonable outcome is immediate termination."
And with that, the man produced an outlandishly long and pointed knife, and thrust it with lightning speed and crushing force directly through Mike's sternum and into his heart, which valiantly attempted two more beats. The damage was done, though, and it stopped.
Mouth agape, Mike looked down at the hand that had just killed him, then up at the face: impassive. As the man released the knife's handle, Mike toppled backwards, stiffly, like a felled tree, and he landed on the chewing gum display. His head came to rest pointing directly at one of the shop's four fluorescent lights. "Cliché," he thought, "but I'll take whatever I get, at this point." He heard someone calling him. Calling his name. It was Alyssa, his fiancée. "Crap," he thought, "she's come to rent season 2 of Deadwood, and she's gonna find this..."
"Mike!"
"Michael, wake up."
He opened his eyes. He saw his bedside lamp. Or rather, was blinded by his bedside lamp.
"I'm late already, so I'm on my way out. Don't forget to mail the insurance, and can you pick up a card for Jason and Andrea?"
"Ummm...", his hand went to his chest, and finding no murder implements there, continued upwards, where they settled upon rubbing his eyes. He was still recovering from the dream, and could not quite yet cope with Alyssa's hyper-organized morning routine.
"Yeah, right, just, uh ... leave me a sticky note on the door as usual, ok?"
"Ok, sleepy head," she said, kissing him lightly on the head, and strode for the door. She stopped and turned, pulling something out of her bag.
"Oh, and could you return these to Prakash's?"
He focused on her now.
"They're brutally late, and you know how he gets. Thanks!" she chirped, tossing the two DVD's on the bed and continuing her exit.
Slowly, Mike picked up the cases and looked at the titles: "The Matrix" and, "The Executioner".
He dropped them back on the bed, laid back down, and stared up at the ceiling, one hand idly scratching his breastbone.