The Chronicles of S-Mart: Part the First, by Garrette J.

There was a silent truce between them as they tore open the door to S-Mart. The man stood stock still holding the door open mockingly holding his hand to usher in the lady, the glare on his face stating all that needed to be said. The lady briskly walked past the man not breaking stride or looking at him, as if he wasn’t even there. Heads quickly turned towards their direction and murmurs quickly followed. The man snatched up a small basket, nearly knocking over the whole stack, and continued on his warpath towards the snack isles. The lady walked by him, plowing through him with her left shoulder as she continued on her way towards the drink isle.

On the snack isle the man began to ravage the defenseless snack cakes and bags of chips, ripping them from their sorted isle and hurdling them towards his basket. He acted with nothing but barely masked primal rage, showing his complete and utter discontentment while at the same time wearing an oddly happy smile on his face. Each snack, each bag was utterly abused, some became unrecognizable after their impact with the basket, others were mortally wounded and fell apart only a few minutes after being in the man’s crushing grip. There was one snack, however, that he treated with the upmost care and those were his Twinkies.

Meanwhile the lady was having herself a jolly time depleting the once endless supply of drinks. The once proud refrigerators which boasted complete inventories of the most refreshing drinks now stood depraved of all honor. Arms already full of drinks she saw his favorite drink Yahoos; she grabbed only one and vigorously shook it. Quickly she strutted over to the man half-dropping half-throwing the drinks into the basket until she hit her target, his once proud but now decimated Twinkies.

In a silent argument they arrived at the counter, neither acknowledging that the other was even alive. Unfortunately this led the man to not notice the fact that the lady was no longer near his side or anywhere in the store. Suddenly an almost patterned series of tires stopping told him where she was. Looking out the window he could see his car lurching and stopping across the parking lot. Smirking, he calmly strutted out to his car and peered into the window at the lady.

After a few minutes of bickering she refuses to give him the keys and he refuses to teach her how to drive a standard, they each call their own taxi and part their ways.

Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.