“Michael, I need you to go take inventory down in the basement,” said my lazy dickhead boss.

I hate having to go to the basement at work. It’s dark and musty, and I’m pretty sure there’s a ton of mold down there too. Every time I’m down there, my eyes get all watery, and I sneeze nonstop.

Descending the stairs, I stop at the bottom and flip the light switch. Why the hell would they put the light switch at the bottom? That’s a safety hazard in my book. One false step, and boom, you’re left limp and broken at the bottom. I make my way back upstairs to get a flashlight.

I walk into Tim’s office, and he’s playing solitaire on his computer. Lazy bastard. “Light doesn’t work. I need a flashlight.”

“Check the storage closet.” I start to walk out when he stops me. “Check this out.” He’s printed out a meme he found on google. That’s right. He PRINTED it out. The meme features an old lady, and it says, ‘Tracking my cookies? They’ll never get my recipe!’ I fake a chuckle and haul ass out of there before he can show me another.

After rummaging around the storage closet for a bit, I finally found a flashlight. I click it on to make sure it works, and it does. I make my way back down the stairs.

I click on the flashlight at the top of the stairs, so I don’t accidentally fall. I reach the bottom, and that’s when I see about a dozen mannequins. When the hell did we get mannequins? This is a liquor store.

I call Tim on my phone because I don’t feel like walking back upstairs. “Why do we have mannequins?”

“It’s for a store promotion I’m working on for Christmas. Gonna dress them up like elves and such and dance around with them. Have one of y’all hand out fake presents to them and sing and stuff. Gonna record it and post it on our Facebook page,” he said.

“That sounds like an awful idea. I’ll tell you right now that I ain’t gonna be the one dancing around with elves.” I hang up and begin counting bottles.

The mannequins are all bunched up, huddled together like they’re conspiring their sick and twisted Christmas dance routine. As I’m counting, I hear a bottle smash. At first, I thought, ‘shit, we got rats.’

Turning around, my light lands on a lone mannequin. It had branched off from its dance group and was next to the whiskey. One broken bottle by its feet and one bottle in its hand. Oh, fuck no.

I look at it and say, “Nah, I ain’t fuckin’ with y’all. I’m out of here.” As I’m walking towards the stairs, I stop by the mannequin, look it square in its nonexistent eyes, and kick it right in the chest. It goes flying back into the other mannequins knocking them all to the ground. Strike!

Going up the stairs, I yell to my boss that I quit, hop in my car and haul ass home.

Down in the basement, the mannequin that had been kicked lies on its back.

A single tear rolling down its face.