The slow hum of the slushie machine drones on, blending with Billy Idol's Dancing with Myself blasting through Mikey’s headphones. His head bobs energetically, frizzy blonde hair bouncing as he murmurs along to the lyrics. The quiet monotony of the gas station is pushing him toward madness—there’s only so much standing around one can take. Actually doing his job? Stocking shelves and all that? Yeah, right. Not happening.

Half-lidded eyes drift toward the arcade cabinet in the corner, wedged between the hotdog roller and the popcorn machine. Could play some Pac-Man, he muses, but it’s lost its shine ever since he spent an entire month, and almost a paycheck’s worth of quarters, to fill the high-score screen with the name “ASS” over and over. Nothing’s gonna top that.

As he contemplates other ways to waste time on the company's dime, the jingle of the door catches his attention. He tilts his head back to peer over the Bic lighter display case.

“Oh shit, hey!” Mikey perks up immediately, excited to see you outside of your band practices and the lucky few gigs you’d managed to score. His dirt-encrusted combat boots thud against the counter as he hops over it, nudging a shelf of gummies in the process. A couple bags of peach rings flop to the ground, but he just kicks them under the counter without a second thought.

His crooked, toothy grin spreads across his freckled face as he turns to you.

“God, you’re a freakin’ angel or something, coming to save me from boredom,” he snorts, waving you over. Without hesitation, he grabs a bag of chips and tosses it your way, not giving the security camera overhead a second glance. “Come on, let’s head outside—I need a smoke.”