It ain't none of his business, but Freddy's dad always did say that he was nosy in more ways than one, right before pinching the bridge of Freddy's oversized honker and laughing in his face.
His mom would get pissy every time she caught him at it. Apparently the nose was a family heirloom, passed down from his great great grandmother, but it had managed to skip her out entirely.
It's clear that Brown really does give half a shit about comic books, but once that shit runs out this business is more or less a dead weight to him. Freddy starts finding more excuses to get out of the stock room, getting an idea of how many customers actually bother to come through the doors. It ain't much, and newbies tend to be kids with or without parents who get freaked out by Brown's inability to keep from swearing for more than five seconds.
But Brown's always got enough money in the bank to pay Freddy, and order more stock. A couple of guys have pull lists but it's not all that impressive. The odd bits and bobs he sells here and there don't seem to have much to do with the bottom line.
"You wanna man the front, Orange? I got some business I gotta attend to." Brown asks.
Freddy looks up from the busywork he's assigned himself, putting the stash of Incredible Hulk comics they have in a box by the back wall in some sort of usable order. Everything in the shop has its own box, but the boxes themselves are all out of wack. "What kind of business?"
"It don't fucking matter what kind of business. What matters is I need someone to take money for a couple of hours. Can you handle that shit?"
Freddy looks round the shop. No one else is in by the two of them. He nods, and fishes a particularly gratuitous cover out of the box in front of him. Bruce Banner is all gone, wrapped in green skin and purple trousers that never seem to tear as his thighs expand. He holds it up for Brown to see as he grabs his coat. "How many sizes too big do you reckon Doctor Banner has to wear his clothes to stop himself ripping everything when he hulks out?"
Brown giggles. "Fuckin' ten, twenty or some shit. You know his dick's gotta get like a coke bottle, you need plenty of give to account for that."
Freddy supposes he's right, but gets away without saying anything as Brown swans out the door and leaves him be.
For five minutes, Freddy keeps sorting comics. The walls in New York are universally thin and without the thrum of Brown's restless energy to take the edge off, he can hear everything happening outside. From the drone of cars cruising down the block to feet hitting the sidewalk. That's all there is, the box full of comics and the sounds coming in from outside.
And Brown doesn't come back, doesn't change his mind about leaving Freddy be. Maybe he really does have business to attend to, maybe he just wanted to go catch a dirty film.
Maybe he pays for girls to come back to the apartment with him and fucks them while no one else is about. He doesn't seem to get any action on his own, even if he does spend the weekends staying out as late as possible, coming home with stories of bright lights and warm bodies in downtown clubs.
The mental picture doesn't work. Freddy can't believe that Brown has ever had an honest lay. He conjures up the image of money changing hand, the cursory pretense at romance before he's standing to attention, ready to go and her legs are spread and her eyes are closed. Freddy should feel something about that more than pervasive numbness.
Everything he knows about sex, Freddy learned from pornography. When he slips up behind the counter, the first thing he clocks is that the television Brown uses to watch girls wail and groan like they're having a good time is off. He fixes it with a long, steady look before deciding not to turn it on.
Behind the counter itself, there's nothing more than the till, more or less empty save a scattering of change, and a few stacks of particularly popular comics. Freddy leaves them be, and moves forward into the back office proper.
Though there's a door to this room, it's never closed, and though he's never been specifically told not to come in here, Freddy's never seen it save from the outside. The TV sits on a table that's not big enough for anything else, and the chair sat opposite it looks fragile enough to fall apart as soon as its sat on. Shelves groan with the weight of various stock books and receipt files that mostly don't look like they've been here since the war. Everything wreaks of dust, caked in an unwelcome layer of grey, like an attic left too long unattended.
Tucked away in one corner, are five books that look like someone's written in them some time in the past decade. All bound in navy blue and stuck up with strips peppered in Brown's barely legible handwriting. Freddy grabs the one labelled nineteen seventy four onwards and flips open at the begining. Orders and purchases have been marked up meticulously, accounting for every individual sale and keeping a running total of everything left in stock at the end of each month. At first, Freddy can't see anything wrong with it, save for some rather strange consumer trends about six months ago.
He catches the problem when he starts looking for the record of the Iron Man comic he bought when he first came in. It doesn't take him long, given that he can more or less remember the date and he was one of the first to buy the comic here, according to the log.
Which is fucking weird, because it had been out for long enough that Freddy had heard kids talking about it in the street. He had really wanted that comic, and when he skips to the end of October he can see Brown only had five left in stock from an order of a hundred.
His eyes flick over to the price column and his stomach drops. Two dollars sixty five, it says he paid for the thing, and the single dollar hole it burned in his pocket lights up. Freddy starts counting in numbers from the last week, seeing fifty plus purchases made on a day they can't have had more than fifteen customers in all told, and everything at a significant mark up from what Brown would ever actually sell it at, usually coming out as more than double.
Freddy slams the book shut, and dust dances in the air in front of his eyes, the room thick with it whether its settled or not. he sets it back as best he can, hoping that Brown's typical laissez faire attitude to organisation will keep him from noticing any disturbed lines in the grime coating the floor. Maybe it's a tax thing, but settling more product surely means you have to pay more tax. Could be an insurance scam though, Brown trying to make the business look more profitable than it is before he burns the whole thing down.
The click of the door opening pulls Freddy sharply back into the room. His heart jumps up into his mouth, and decides immediately that if Brown is back early, his excuse for walking off the shop floor was to turn the TV on. Brown seems convinced that Freddy's age means he doesn't stop thinking about sex, he'll buy it.
It's not Brown. Freddy brushes dust off his shoulders as he approaches the counter with a smile that this place probably doesn't deserve. It's not like any of the other customers ever get that kind of treatment.
"Hey." Freddy nods towards the guy. He opens his mouth to say something stupid like 'can I help you?' before changing his mind. If the guy needs help, he can ask.
The guy is huge, wearing rough denim jeans and a button down with the sleeves buttoned tight around his wrists. Not a shred of muscle visible and yet he looks like he could knock clean through a wall if the mood took him. Everything is a size or two too big and Freddy's hackles raise like the guy's about to go full hulk in front of him.
The guy looks up, and Freddy recognises him as the man who had been threatening Brown a couple of weeks back. His dark hair is gelled back off his face, which is disarmingly open, curiosity knitting itself into his eyes when he's not met by the familiar face of the business. "Where's Mr Brown?"
"He had some business to attend to." Freddy says, very quickly. His eyes dart to the comic the guy has picked up. Supergirl. Odd choice for someone who looks like him.
"That's pretty unusual, I gotta say." The guy scratches his head. "Shame, I had some stuff to discuss with him."
"I work here too, ya know. I might be able to help." Freddy wishes he were able to keep his stupid mouth shut.
The guy looks at him long and hard, like he's having a hard time weight up his options. Eventually he shakes his head. "Nah, this ain't for you to get caught up in." He slides the Supergirl comic on to the counter and starts reaching for his wallet. "Just let him know that Vic Vega stopped by, and I'd really appreciate it if he could be in this time tomorrow."
His voice is so soft it's kinda hard to hear what he's saying. With the counter in between the two of them, the effect is no doubt lessened by the guy's gotta be a full foot taller than Freddy. He thumbs three dollar bills from his wallet.
Freddy hesitates to take the money. "Sir, this comic only costs a dollar."
Vega's eyes narrow as he smiles, laughing ever so slightly under his breath. "You're a good kid, ya know? Keep the other two dollars for yourself if you like, for being so good."
And that's the thrilling story of how Freddy Newandyke had two extra dollars in his pocket by the end of the day. Vega leaves with his comic, and the store is more or less silent till it comes time to close up.
---------
Brown makes it back to the flat several hours after Freddy falls in, having fed himself and spent his shiny new dollars in a penny arcade. His face is flushed, his arms floppy and uncoordinated at his side. One way or another, he definitely got laid.
"Thanks for looking after the store for me." He says, absent minded as he pushes through to the kitchen to grab a glass of water to go with the burger he's got wrapped up under one arm.
"S'fine." Freddy shrugs. He's got the New York Post open on his lap, looking through an article on some art exhibition he has no intent to go to in a million years.
"Anything funny happen?"
"This guy stopped by, Vic Vega. Said he had something he wanted to talk to you about. He's planning on coming by again tomorrow afternoon."
Brown tenses up, shooting a warning look back towards Freddy. "Shit. You didn't say shit to Pink or Blue did you?"
Freddy shakes his head.
"Good." Brown breathes. "Shit. Forgot he was supposed to come by today. Fuck. Ok, thanks for telling me."
He grabs his glass of water and runs off towards his bedroom without bothering to ask Freddy whether he managed to move any stock throughout the day.
Re: Sport/Orange - shady skeevey stuff - 9a/?
---------------------------------------------------------------
It ain't none of his business, but Freddy's dad always did say that he was nosy in more ways than one, right before pinching the bridge of Freddy's oversized honker and laughing in his face.
His mom would get pissy every time she caught him at it. Apparently the nose was a family heirloom, passed down from his great great grandmother, but it had managed to skip her out entirely.
It's clear that Brown really does give half a shit about comic books, but once that shit runs out this business is more or less a dead weight to him. Freddy starts finding more excuses to get out of the stock room, getting an idea of how many customers actually bother to come through the doors. It ain't much, and newbies tend to be kids with or without parents who get freaked out by Brown's inability to keep from swearing for more than five seconds.
But Brown's always got enough money in the bank to pay Freddy, and order more stock. A couple of guys have pull lists but it's not all that impressive. The odd bits and bobs he sells here and there don't seem to have much to do with the bottom line.
"You wanna man the front, Orange? I got some business I gotta attend to." Brown asks.
Freddy looks up from the busywork he's assigned himself, putting the stash of Incredible Hulk comics they have in a box by the back wall in some sort of usable order. Everything in the shop has its own box, but the boxes themselves are all out of wack. "What kind of business?"
"It don't fucking matter what kind of business. What matters is I need someone to take money for a couple of hours. Can you handle that shit?"
Freddy looks round the shop. No one else is in by the two of them. He nods, and fishes a particularly gratuitous cover out of the box in front of him. Bruce Banner is all gone, wrapped in green skin and purple trousers that never seem to tear as his thighs expand. He holds it up for Brown to see as he grabs his coat. "How many sizes too big do you reckon Doctor Banner has to wear his clothes to stop himself ripping everything when he hulks out?"
Brown giggles. "Fuckin' ten, twenty or some shit. You know his dick's gotta get like a coke bottle, you need plenty of give to account for that."
Freddy supposes he's right, but gets away without saying anything as Brown swans out the door and leaves him be.
For five minutes, Freddy keeps sorting comics. The walls in New York are universally thin and without the thrum of Brown's restless energy to take the edge off, he can hear everything happening outside. From the drone of cars cruising down the block to feet hitting the sidewalk. That's all there is, the box full of comics and the sounds coming in from outside.
And Brown doesn't come back, doesn't change his mind about leaving Freddy be. Maybe he really does have business to attend to, maybe he just wanted to go catch a dirty film.
Maybe he pays for girls to come back to the apartment with him and fucks them while no one else is about. He doesn't seem to get any action on his own, even if he does spend the weekends staying out as late as possible, coming home with stories of bright lights and warm bodies in downtown clubs.
The mental picture doesn't work. Freddy can't believe that Brown has ever had an honest lay. He conjures up the image of money changing hand, the cursory pretense at romance before he's standing to attention, ready to go and her legs are spread and her eyes are closed. Freddy should feel something about that more than pervasive numbness.
Everything he knows about sex, Freddy learned from pornography. When he slips up behind the counter, the first thing he clocks is that the television Brown uses to watch girls wail and groan like they're having a good time is off. He fixes it with a long, steady look before deciding not to turn it on.
Behind the counter itself, there's nothing more than the till, more or less empty save a scattering of change, and a few stacks of particularly popular comics. Freddy leaves them be, and moves forward into the back office proper.
Though there's a door to this room, it's never closed, and though he's never been specifically told not to come in here, Freddy's never seen it save from the outside. The TV sits on a table that's not big enough for anything else, and the chair sat opposite it looks fragile enough to fall apart as soon as its sat on. Shelves groan with the weight of various stock books and receipt files that mostly don't look like they've been here since the war. Everything wreaks of dust, caked in an unwelcome layer of grey, like an attic left too long unattended.
Tucked away in one corner, are five books that look like someone's written in them some time in the past decade. All bound in navy blue and stuck up with strips peppered in Brown's barely legible handwriting. Freddy grabs the one labelled nineteen seventy four onwards and flips open at the begining. Orders and purchases have been marked up meticulously, accounting for every individual sale and keeping a running total of everything left in stock at the end of each month. At first, Freddy can't see anything wrong with it, save for some rather strange consumer trends about six months ago.
He catches the problem when he starts looking for the record of the Iron Man comic he bought when he first came in. It doesn't take him long, given that he can more or less remember the date and he was one of the first to buy the comic here, according to the log.
Which is fucking weird, because it had been out for long enough that Freddy had heard kids talking about it in the street. He had really wanted that comic, and when he skips to the end of October he can see Brown only had five left in stock from an order of a hundred.
His eyes flick over to the price column and his stomach drops. Two dollars sixty five, it says he paid for the thing, and the single dollar hole it burned in his pocket lights up. Freddy starts counting in numbers from the last week, seeing fifty plus purchases made on a day they can't have had more than fifteen customers in all told, and everything at a significant mark up from what Brown would ever actually sell it at, usually coming out as more than double.
Freddy slams the book shut, and dust dances in the air in front of his eyes, the room thick with it whether its settled or not. he sets it back as best he can, hoping that Brown's typical laissez faire attitude to organisation will keep him from noticing any disturbed lines in the grime coating the floor. Maybe it's a tax thing, but settling more product surely means you have to pay more tax. Could be an insurance scam though, Brown trying to make the business look more profitable than it is before he burns the whole thing down.
The click of the door opening pulls Freddy sharply back into the room. His heart jumps up into his mouth, and decides immediately that if Brown is back early, his excuse for walking off the shop floor was to turn the TV on. Brown seems convinced that Freddy's age means he doesn't stop thinking about sex, he'll buy it.
It's not Brown. Freddy brushes dust off his shoulders as he approaches the counter with a smile that this place probably doesn't deserve. It's not like any of the other customers ever get that kind of treatment.
"Hey." Freddy nods towards the guy. He opens his mouth to say something stupid like 'can I help you?' before changing his mind. If the guy needs help, he can ask.
The guy is huge, wearing rough denim jeans and a button down with the sleeves buttoned tight around his wrists. Not a shred of muscle visible and yet he looks like he could knock clean through a wall if the mood took him. Everything is a size or two too big and Freddy's hackles raise like the guy's about to go full hulk in front of him.
The guy looks up, and Freddy recognises him as the man who had been threatening Brown a couple of weeks back. His dark hair is gelled back off his face, which is disarmingly open, curiosity knitting itself into his eyes when he's not met by the familiar face of the business. "Where's Mr Brown?"
"He had some business to attend to." Freddy says, very quickly. His eyes dart to the comic the guy has picked up. Supergirl. Odd choice for someone who looks like him.
"That's pretty unusual, I gotta say." The guy scratches his head. "Shame, I had some stuff to discuss with him."
"I work here too, ya know. I might be able to help." Freddy wishes he were able to keep his stupid mouth shut.
The guy looks at him long and hard, like he's having a hard time weight up his options. Eventually he shakes his head. "Nah, this ain't for you to get caught up in." He slides the Supergirl comic on to the counter and starts reaching for his wallet. "Just let him know that Vic Vega stopped by, and I'd really appreciate it if he could be in this time tomorrow."
His voice is so soft it's kinda hard to hear what he's saying. With the counter in between the two of them, the effect is no doubt lessened by the guy's gotta be a full foot taller than Freddy. He thumbs three dollar bills from his wallet.
Freddy hesitates to take the money. "Sir, this comic only costs a dollar."
Vega's eyes narrow as he smiles, laughing ever so slightly under his breath. "You're a good kid, ya know? Keep the other two dollars for yourself if you like, for being so good."
And that's the thrilling story of how Freddy Newandyke had two extra dollars in his pocket by the end of the day. Vega leaves with his comic, and the store is more or less silent till it comes time to close up.
---------
Brown makes it back to the flat several hours after Freddy falls in, having fed himself and spent his shiny new dollars in a penny arcade. His face is flushed, his arms floppy and uncoordinated at his side. One way or another, he definitely got laid.
"Thanks for looking after the store for me." He says, absent minded as he pushes through to the kitchen to grab a glass of water to go with the burger he's got wrapped up under one arm.
"S'fine." Freddy shrugs. He's got the New York Post open on his lap, looking through an article on some art exhibition he has no intent to go to in a million years.
"Anything funny happen?"
"This guy stopped by, Vic Vega. Said he had something he wanted to talk to you about. He's planning on coming by again tomorrow afternoon."
Brown tenses up, shooting a warning look back towards Freddy. "Shit. You didn't say shit to Pink or Blue did you?"
Freddy shakes his head.
"Good." Brown breathes. "Shit. Forgot he was supposed to come by today. Fuck. Ok, thanks for telling me."
He grabs his glass of water and runs off towards his bedroom without bothering to ask Freddy whether he managed to move any stock throughout the day.
---------