the news of the Profâs death, I guess. Weâve already sold, like, twelve or fifteen copies at least, and weâve been open less than an hour.â
âOh, youâve got to be fucking shitting me!â Frank said.
âYup. Amazing what a little death will do for sales,â the boy said as he restacked the adult colouring-in books on the counter. Another stupid craze that made Frank want to shoot himself in the head. âI called some of our other branches. Theyâve sold out everywhere: Canal Walk, the Waterfront, even the airport.â
âJesus!â Frank bellowed. âThatâs it. I canât do this anymore.â He stepped out from behind the till counter.
âWhere are you going?â the kid looked confused.
âI need a drink,â Frank said.
âBut itâs not even ten yet,â pointed out bullring nose.
âYou know Clive will fire you if you walk out in the middle of a shift, hey?â the boy called out after him.
âKid, it wonât be the first job Iâve been fired from,â Frank announced. As he walked towards the door of the store, he swiped his hand across the main display table, knocking the neatly stacked piles of bestsellers and new arrivals onto the floor with a clatter. He paused, turned, and punched the life-sized cardboard cutout of Tim Noakes in the face. He shouted as pain shot through his damaged fist, and up his arm. He hopped up and down, swearing and nursing his hand for a moment, then he dropped his hurt arm and continued punching the cutout with his left hand, over and over again, until it collapsed. Then he stamped all over it, bent and tore at the head, screaming, âFuck you, fuck you, fuck you!â The young assistants and the customers stood inside the doorway watching him, their mouths gaping.
At last Frank levered himself upright and stomped off through the mall.
âItâs fine, Iâm leaving, Iâm leaving!â he shouted, as he passed a security guard walking towards the commotion, speaking into his radio. âI need a drink anyway.â
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THE HIJACKERS
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Wednesday 9:29am
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âHold him up on your side,â Thabo hissed.
âI am holding him up on my side,â Papsak snapped back. âYou hold him up on your side, wena!â
The woman in the seat in front of them turned and stared.
âMolo, Mama,â Thabo said, smiling at her politely. She scowled at them, then heaved herself forward again.
The second she wasnât looking at them, Thabo glared at Papsak, then adjusted the beanie and the oversized sunglasses, which had started slipping off the dead manâs face.
âWhatâs wrong with Umlungu?â the taxi driver shouted over his shoulder.
Papsak and Thabo eyed each other nervously.
âToo much shisa nyama,â Thabo said.
âHeâs my uncle,â Papsak said.
Thabo gave Papsak a filthy look and tried to tell him to shut up telepathically.
The driver turned in his seat to side-eye Papsak, and his taxi swayed dangerously into the next lane, making the mama shout at him.
Papsak adjusted the sunglasses, which were slipping down the dead manâs face once again.
âThis mlungu? Your uncle?â asked the driver, facing forward.
âYes. Heâs married to my motherâs sister,â Papsak explained, shrugging at Thabo.
âHawu!â exclaimed the mama, clicking her tongue.
âItâs his birthday,â Thabo said. âWe just came from his party. Too
much phuza. Weâre taking him home so he can sober up before he goes home to my aunt, otherwise she will kill him.â
âAnd us,â Papsak added.
The taxi driver eyed them warily through the rearview mirror.
âFor an extra ten, can you drop us outside Leftyâs shebeen?â Thabo asked.
The taxi driver swerved into the other lane without indicating, and the corpseâs head bobbed sideways, landing on