John Casey loves all kinds of food from all kinds of crazyass countries. He’s eaten the best meatballs ever from a street vendor in Kabul, although he has an idea that the herb used for seasoning them was not oregano. When he was stationed in Mongolia he even tried sheep’s eyes, mind you he was pretty wasted at the time. He’s tasted fried chicken feet and cooked grasshoppers and even the idea of chewing inch-long live witchetty grubs doesn’t revolt him. If you’re hungry you eat; it’s as simple as that.
As long as no one’s talking about licorice.
He hates licorice -- the black kind, not those sissy cherry-flavoured Twizzlers that pretend to be evil. It’s the real stuff that’s his nemesis. Kryptonite that disguises itself as innocent looking sticks of pure black pain.
When he was a kid--a real kid, not a Bartowski type kid--his mom used to keep a tin of licorice hard candies in the car. She’d suck on them constantly, offering them around to torture everyone in the family. They stopped nausea, she used to say, but in his case they brought it on. Or ‘brought it up’ is maybe a more apt phrase to use.
Now Casey may hate licorice, but more than that he hates the idea of anyone finding out his secret, so when Chuck Bartowski and that runt Grimes sit on the counter sucking on black Twizzlers, Casey growls low in his throat and stays clear of them. He spends the morning stacking and re-stacking the shelves until even Big Mike notices and congratulates him on the unusual amount of effort he’s putting in. The manager leaves the floor in a hurry as soon as Casey’s growl turns into a lip-curling snarl.
“Casey. Oh, Casey!”
The Intersect is calling him over to the desk now. Who the fuck does Bartowski think he is? He attempts to ignore the twerp, but that insistent “Casey,” is driving him nuttier than when the nerds play sword fighting with the barbecue tools. The grill section is his and no one else should be allowed to touch -- even customers if Casey has his way.
Tentatively he approaches the counter, coming to an abrupt halt at the first whiff of Kryptonite.
“Ellie wants your recipe for quiche.” Bartowski grins at him with a black-tinted mouth and Casey turns green in response. “Oh and Sarah's just called and she's wondering if you…and um Bluebell would like to come out on a double date with us tonight.” The kid winks, looking even more demonic.
Bluebell is a cow’s name. Why did the moron pick that as a cover story, for christsake? He’d never date a woman called something as ludicrous as... “Bluebell?”
“Yeah, you know, your girlfriend you were telling me about when we were car-pooling yesterday.”
Casey leans in, grabbing Bartowski by his shirt collar. He’s filled with a sudden need to throttle away all that stupid, but Grimes is laughing hysterically and the stink of licorice is getting stronger by the second, thwarting his plans of mass destruction. Dry heaving, Casey drops Chuck and cups a hand over his own mouth, willing himself not to barf in front of them. Grabbing the candy out of their mouths, he launches the evil sticks across the store and everyone watches with awe as they land neatly, side by side, on top of the rack of 360 games.
“Dude, you stole my Twizzler,” says Grimes. “You owe me big.”
“Does Casey not like the nasty licorice?” says Bartowski in a fucking baby voice and Casey is so very close to reaching for his gun.
“You can’t hurt me in here,” smirks Chuck, reaching under the desk and pulling out another piece of candy like it’s a magic trick.
“Wanna bet,” growls Casey, making a grab for the kid.
Chuck snatches his arm back and leaps over the counter, racing away gazelle-like across the floor with Casey on his tail like a cheetah.
Pushing past the customers (who are always wrong) and ignoring evil management glares, (Beckman is far more intimidating) Casey corners Chuck in the staff area, pressing him up against the lockers.
“I… I’m very sorry?” Chuck grins nervously as his tie tightens into a hangman’s noose. “Casey?”
The Twizzler drops from Chuck’s hand and Casey pushes in close, breathing
in aniseed fumes and feeling Chuck squirm helplessly against him. Closer now,
the scent turns more aromatic and even Chuck’s bluish-black teeth are
becoming strangely appealing. Closer still, just a fraction of an inch separating
their lips, Casey looks into big, scared eyes and feels a big, less-than-scared
hard on rubbing against his. Reaching around, he cups Chuck’s butt and
reduces the gap between them to zero, discovering in the process that black
licorice tastes way better than he remembered.
DONE