"RETARDS are out there," they thought. "They've never been at this gas station before. There are RETARDS everywhere." Stale, recycled AC blew around the checkout counter.
"I HATE RETARDS," they thought. Tunak Tunak Tun played on repeat on the chitzy bluetooth speaker in the corner, rattling the glass of the tobacco shelves even as the $5 cologne coating their bodies repelled their (merited) hatred of the mentally ill in public.
"With some guns we could kill anyone we want," they said to one another, out loud.
