Midnight showdown at Walgreens

As we burst through the door pushing aside all hallucinegenic clown shaped detritus, a voice called out to us.  "We close in two minutes," the bitchy annoyed bitch said.  She probably only went through this exact same routine for the last ten minutes of every night of her life.  I cooley responded, "That's a minute and thirty seconds more then we need." .... Five minutes later while we continued to pile high the various soft drinks, candy's and inedible sticks of death that were required to fuel our all night shenanigans, it became obvious that the usual turds had been flushed out the exit and we were the two floaters left. 
"That's the most abominable shit I've ever seen" my cohort remarked.  Apparently my choice of snack cakes was unacceptable; so unacceptable that he would be seen eating two of them later.  As we slowly moved to the front counter the Walgreenians closed in from every aisle as if the pressure could force us out like bad Mexican food.  We paid and left but not before making enough idle homosexual remarks to ensure that both us and our cashier were uncomfortable with our straight guys being funny by saying overtly gay stuff routine.  Outside, two gypsies were smoking bear claws while staring into the night.  They just don't make donuts like they used to.

I am soooooo fucking tired.  I could really go for another two-pack of zebra cakes and a good old fashioned Mountain Dew. 

George Webb's was a dark and desolate madhouse of all of the queerest types of nightmares I've ever encountered in my many millennia on this planet.  Pink elven whore-ors, (horrors? What? Fuck you!) accompanied by men in need of tampons, the cackling of our uneducated hosts, the the the the the the poorly mangled assemblages of our original food order, doydoyudoydoydoydoy...ahem...sorry about that.  Where was I?  Oh yes, G-Webbs.  There we were, two lone gunslingers in a midnight saloon of dark comedy.  We aren't racist (yes we are) but every ethnic tidal wading pool had seemed to separate itself acoustically into a cacophony of...er...sounds...or some shit like that. Just when we thought it was safe to turn around we encountered some hideous thing tearing at its meal like a fucking pterodactyl.  Some flower headed beast that reminds us of a fat Mayim Bialik in the middle of a bender fueled by industrial cleaning supplies.  Her Trollmaygnun accomplice was busy vaporizing the better part of three normal human meals while eyeing up one of the bus boys like a vulture stalking carrion.  This particular bus boy had a shamble-lunge movement cycle that may have caused him to look extra corpse-y which all Trolmaegnungs find super delicious.  In an attempt to shelter our bright and promising careers from all this futility we slammed our eleventeenth non-caffeinated diet sodas, put our pants back on and walked out into the night.