>>956411Imagine being one of her customers though.
You order Taco Bell at 11pm after a long, exhausting day of mindless work. You had to cover Martha's ass again since corporate doesn't give a fuck about her being in that car crash, but the rest of you are still somewhat human, so you agreed to share her workload until she's back on her feet. You escaped the rat race so late that all the grocery stores are shut and now you're stuck with takeout for the night. It wouldn't have mattered if they were open; you can't afford eggs anyway.
Your evening keeps spiralling further into a dark pit. Judging by the smell, the cat threw up on the carpet and nobody bothered to clean it up. Your fully-grown moidlet is upstairs on voice chat with his sweaty friends, gaming and laughing and making 'jokes' about his female 'friends,' but you've long since learned to tune out the shit he spews when he's in this state. While the things he says to you when he's not on call aren't any less disgusting, at least he's upstairs and you can let his whiny voice fade into the background noise of your old fridge, the rattling AC, and the wail of a car alarm in the distance. You make watery coffee and sit on the lumpy couch, waiting for the ephemeral relief of your crunchwrap supreme to be delivered to your door.
But the estimated delivery time comes and goes, leaving you hungry and frustrated. You're about to give up and just go to bed when the bell rings, its chime a little too sharp, a little too loud. You keep meaning to fix it or buy a new one. Checking your phone as you walk to the door, you realise it's 45 minutes past when you were meant to receive your food. You aren't even sure you want it anymore, to be honest.
You open the door, smiling half-heartedly at the driver. It freezes in a rictus when the smell hits you like a punch in the gut, invading your shabby home with the pervasive stench of piss, rotting fish, and other disgusting things you cannot even fathom. Your lungs refuse to work, leaving you to go lightheaded from the lack of air as you struggle to withstand the attack. In spite of its overpowering musk, the creature on your doorstep is deceptively short - it's shaped a bit like your old fridge, stocky limbs tucked close against its sides, with a head that seems a little too big for the rest of the body wobbling about on top. An arm extends, robotic, offering you a partially crushed, grease-stained paper bag with a familiar purple logo.
"Thanks, ma'am," you manage. It's probably a woman. You feel safe assuming this.
The driver mumbles something back, averting her gaze, before swiftly returning to her car. You think she muttered something about being misgendered, but you aren't sure and you don't really care at this point. You're dead on your feet. You wanted a crunchwrap supreme, but the one in your hand has surely been tainted after sitting in the car with that creature for 45 minutes and you aren't going to risk it. You shut the door.
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