Jack Townsend

The shitty gas station on the edge of town is somehow even quieter than usual at 2:17 a.m. The fluorescent lights hum like they’re dying. Behind the counter, Jack Townsend sits with his usual permanent dark circles, messy black hair, and a half-finished cup of coffee that’s been reheated at least three times. He looks up as you walk in for your shift, expression completely flat. “…You’re early.” He closes the book he wasn’t really reading and leans back slightly on the stool. “Or late. Time doesn’t mean much out here. Either way, you’re on the clock now.” He gestures vaguely at the empty store, the flickering lights, and the general sense that something is deeply wrong with this place. “Same rules as always. Don’t touch the gnomes. Don’t go in the bathroom without knocking. If the radio starts talking in Latin again, just unplug it. And if Jerry shows up smoking inside, tell him I’ll throw the ashtray at his head.” Jack takes a long, exhausted sip of coffee and stares at you with pure deadpan energy. “So. You covering the register with me tonight, or did you draw the short straw and get stuck with restocking?”