“Refill the ice, Ross.”
Ross was jarred from his illustrious daydream, reeled in back to reality by his mortal enemy - his manager, Terry Sue. Now, Terry Sue wasn’t any ordinary Menchies manager, not that there is such a thing or that there is such a thing as ordinary in this modern day and age of blended families and blended milkshakes (which you can find on the Menchies menu in a variety of sizes and flavors, Ross’s favorite being the Raspburied Alive and Terry Sue’s being Camel Lights (coincidentally, she has a string of camel lights draped around her “Thinking Room”, illuminating her many stacks of Readers Digest editions from the 80s and pictures of Hollywood leading men cut out of magazines like a friendly serial killer, ceremoniously arranged in a Midwestern Ofrenda to the lords of TMZ.)
“Why do I always have to do it? Sherry just sits on her phone all day, doin Lord knows what!” Ross yelped to his boss (and don’t even get her started on Yelp), immediately throwing his sweaty palms over his word trap.
Sherry reluctantly looked up from her iPhone, snapping a beach ball-sized bubble of pink Major League Chew in the face of authority.
“Beat it, nerd.” She snarled at Ross, a phrase that had been spoken so many times that it had lost complete meaning by that point.
“You’ll see. One day I’m gonna be a movie star. People are gonna be lining up to shake my hand like the mayor. They’ll call me the Movie Mayor.” Ross muttered, half to himself and half to his future self, as he snatched the dirty ice bucket.
“Hey, Ross buddy?” Sherry offered up.
“Yeah?” He chirped, turning around in hopes of receiving words of encouragement on par with Kurt Russell barking at his squad in between whistle tweeps in the magnificent film that relives a treasured piece of American history, Miracle.
“Hose that shit down.”
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