Be Careful with Door Handles

The Downtown Palmerston Best Value Grocery Store was a tiny dump in the middle of an otherwise nice part of town. Legend had it that the owner, Crazy Gerrit, chased off the prospective buyers with a shotgun when the new buildings went up. Children crossed to the other side of the street when they walked by on their way to school. Ben was well aware of the store's reputation, but Best Value had the best value, particularly on beer, which he needed to restock.He pulled into the pothole-ridden parking lot and heaved himself out of his old pickup truck. A chime echoed through the store as he pushed the grimy door open and breathed in the smell of stale cigarettes and coffee. Ants rushed out from underfoot as Ben made his way to the back refrigerator. When he pulled the handle to open the door, the handle came off in his hand as the door opened. The door itself wobbled on sketchy cracked hinges, and a second later it flopped to the floor with a tremendous crash.

"Hey!"

Ben whirled around at the shout. Crazy Gerrit rose from behind the cash register like a snake, staring daggers at him through bloodshot eyes from across the store. He reached below the counter and brought his infamous shotgun up to his chest.

"Did you break my 'frigerator?" he said, marching toward the scene of the crime.

Ben shook his head. "It fell apart in my hands. I had nothing to do with-"

"You broke it!" the old man exclaimed, inspecting the shattered frame on the floor. He stirred the shards of glass around with the barrel of the shotgun. "You break it, you buy it. Paid three hundred bucks for it, back in the day. I'll let you off the hook for two fifty."

"Two fif—no!" Ben sputtered. "It's a piece of junk! You should've replaced it years ago!"

"Know why they call me Crazy Gerrit?" Crazy Gerrit asked, bringing the shotgun up and pressing the barrel into Ben's ribs. He rested a bony finger on the trigger.

"Why?" Ben asked. A bead of sweat ran down between his eyes and stopped, hanging, on the end of his nose. He didn't dare move a hand to wipe it.

"Because I'm crazy. All the stories you hear? All of 'em are true." Crazy Gerrit leaned closer and breathed a medley of rotting teeth and bargain brand barbeque sauce into Ben's face. "This ain't a store. It's a kingdom. It's my kingdom."

"It's just a refrigerator door! Let me go."

"Give me my money or you'll be a missing person case the cops will be too scared to check up on."

Ben hesitated. It was unfair and bizarre, but Crazy Gerrit's geriatric finger was still on the trigger, and his eyes were almost daring him to try running.

"Well?"

Very slowly, Ben pulled out his wallet and turned it upside-down, letting every cent inside fall to the floor. He pushed the shotgun down and away from his ribcage, dashed out of the store, and never came back.