I can smell the hosiery in the air. You see, I am in Target. And I have a target.
If the Fat Ladies don’t pounce on their hosiery needs now, when summer is not yet officially over, there will be no tights. You Skinny Minnies don’t understand. You don’t understand why I am here, growling, in the second week of September, ready to drop 200 hard-earned bucks on tights and fight to the death for the the privilege of doing so. I seize a choice red cart, slightly faded from spending too much time in the sun outside at the OK Carridge Corral, and head in.
I have chosen to make my kill on Long Island, far from New York City. First off, the other Fat Ladies are weaker here. They don’t know what it’s like to pay to $25 for a single pair of tights at the Town Shoppe on Broadway. You could wind up paying even more, if you’re dumb enough not to stock up early and and you need a pair of basic black tights in November. These Fat Ladies are weak. They will be killed by the herd.
Here, at this Target, about an hour away from the city, I know I look like the housewives shopping for cheap frozen pizzas, but I also know I am tougher. That’s city living. The women here can’t hide behind the steering wheels of their SUVs. I can knock these bitches down and take their preschool aged children prisoner if need be. The older kids, who will fight — they’re in school. These younger ones I can stuff in my gigantic laptop briefcase until I get my way. Until I get my double-packs of 1x tights.
I get distracted by BOGOS of Dove deodorant and that new Rimmel mascara that promises to make my eyelashes longer. I get distracted, also, by my fury in the clothing section. Rare are the extra larges. It’s not that my F-cups are not welcome here; F-cups are always welcome. It’s that other, large-breasted women have ravaged the sales floor ahead of me. This is not a good sign. Perhaps I am already too late. I remove my crossbow from my laptop briefcase and strap it to my back, then crouch below my red cart for cover and I make my way toward the hosiery section.
A large-assed woman is before me, rifling through the tights. Fool. Foolish woman! I hiss at her. She looks back over her shoulder, and shows me her teeth. As if that will stop me. She is older, and weak. Her cart is several feet away. The old twit has left her handbag in the cart. How will she get hold of her weaponry?
Her teeth do not scare me. “Go,” I warn her, “right now.”
Another sneer.
“I have warned you.” I draw my crossbow, aim it, right at the round rump of her ass. I fire. The impact pushes her forward onto her hands and knees, but the fat on her rump saves her from serious injury.
“I was here first!” I can hear the whine rising into the forefront of her voice. It pleases me.
“What matters, dear, is who is here last.” I throw my crossbow in the direction of Menswear, thrust myself forward, and sink my teeth into her ankle. It is the silly woman who wears Crocs to War. Her blood is warm, and thick, like liquid velvet. She squeals, like a wounded chipmunk hit by a tractor trailer, and scurries away to lick her hard-to-reach wound in a secluded spot underneath a rack of clearance Hanes underpants.
Picking up my crossbow, I take great pride knowing I have earned my bounty. Sure, much has been taken. But much is left. I leave Target with 24 four pairs of tights in assorted colors and textures, including two pairs of fishnets, because a girl needs fishnets; a BOGO of Dove deodorant; some of that nice Rimmel mascara I’m certain is lying to me, but what the fuck, and the red stain and taste of victory on and in my mouth.
No children were hurt. This time.
