Wal-Mart Goes Down

Wal-Mart Goes Down

By hughgee

“Oooo-aaaahHHHhhh” came the sound from the other side of the door.

Another moment and Melanie came bounding out, all smiles, impishly cute, her distended swollen lips and the big shnozola the only things big about her. Then there were those thighs to consider. And the attitude. Cocky. The girl was confident if nothing else.

“What was that?” asked Fred. Fred looked and acted like his namesake from Scooby-Doo: big and blonde and cowardly, which was why he’d agreed so readily to Melanie’s suggestion that she “go in first and have a look around.”

The two were former rank and file employees of Mert’s Department Store, formerly downtown Ebor City’s only department store till Wal-Mart bought the place out. Now they were up in the penthouse suite of Wal-Mart’s posh corporate building, trying to exact their revenge for being laid off.

“What happened to that big guard in there?” gulped Fred. Fred had since become a plumber’s apprentice since he’d lost his job to the corporate Fascist takeover. His hands were still blackish from the grimy pipes he had to haul up freight elevators of building not unlike this one; otherwise he was dressed, well, just like his cartoon namesake. Even the gay scarf. You wonder whether he realized it or not.

Melanie took him by the arm, led Fred down the hall. “I took care of him.”

“How?!”

“Come on. We’ve gotta get those documents.”

She meant secret documents linking Sam Walton to huge contributions to the Adolph Hitler and the Nazi party well into and after the commencement of WWII.

Fred stopped her at the next door. “How ‘bout this one?”

“Let me go in,” she said.

Fred gulped again. A big, chickensh#t, cartoony gulp like you get out of Vince McMahon whenever one of his wrestlers has the goods on him in the middle of the ring, except Fred’s was sincere. Fred really was a chicken. Secretly, he’d hoped she’d say No, say let her go. She did. Her brown eyes flitted and batted him away and a big smile and then there’s Fred alone in the hallway once more.

Melanie was five feet tall. When she wasn’t taking classes at Ebor City JC, she’d taken up ballerina dancing part time now that she was fired. She had the build: tiny, lithe, barely a hundred pounds soak and wet, but her thighs bulged like two fat and bronzed chicken breasts in that brown flowery summer dress.

“Oooo-aaaahHHHhhh” came the sound from the other side of the door again, this time followed by a dull thud now that Fred had his ear glued to the door. It opened.

“Not there.” Again she closed the door behind her.

“What happened?”

“C’mon,” she tugged.

Fred followed but was more inquisitive this time. “So what happened in there?”

“Hm?” Melanie tugged him down the hall, quite evidently playing stupid.

“Who was it?”

“Some guy.”

“Some GUY?”

“Yeah, they got like Wal-Mart stormtroopers up here or something. We gotta move.” She hustled him along.

“So what did he SAY?”

“Nothing,” she quipped. “Not too much.”

Another door.

“This could be it,” Melanie observed. “We have to find the one with files from the 40s.”

“M-m-maybe you should let me go in this one.” Fred couldn’t believe he’d said it.

Melanie smacked her naturally collagenated lips in disapproval.

“Come on, I’m the guy. I better.” Fred was really feeling his oats today.

She rolled her eyes. “I know,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You want at ‘im, he’s all yours, tiger. Go for it.”

Fred didn’t like how she automatically assumed there was somebody in there. Still, it was somebody’s office. There probably was.

Fred hesitated. Too late. Can’t back out now. The marbled door opened without a creak. Fred entered. There before him, behind the desk, sat the biggest, baldest man Fred had ever seen in his life. He had an iron jaw with a cleft chin that stuck out like the bumper on a squad car and he had a black Oliver Hardy moustache just like Hitler.

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

Another gulp. “Oh, no one.” Fred backed out quickly, closed the door.

The door flew open. Oliver Hardy Hitler on steroids, still demanding to know who this guy was.

“I’m-I’m n-nobody,” stuttered Fred.

Seizing the moment, doing it seductively, Melanie sauntered in between the two, cooing something about big, strong men.

“What a big, strong, handsome man!” was what she did in fact say, moving in closer, closer, sensuously closer to the bigwig at Wal-Mart in the office doorway—murmuring still, “Oh, you drive me crazy, handsome men”—then a vice closed in on him from below the belt.

Fred saw it, saw Melanie’s hand close around the big man’s package. It was easy, she squeezed and made it look easy in those slacks he had on. Tiny angry fingers and a man on the line, not even time enough to squirm, just an “Oooo-aaaahHHHhhh” and he was down. Not just down—he was out, too.

“Let’s search the office,” she said, looking back at Fred.

Fred was aghast. “What’d you DO?!”

“Squeezed his nuts,” she answered impatiently. “What’d you THINK I did?”

Fred stood with mouth open, pointing down at the man. “That—that—that ain’t normal.”

Melanie was nonplussed. She stood cocking her head at Fred. It was obvious she wanted to get a move on it and Fred was really cramping her style. “What?” she said finally.

Fred pointed again. “That!” Melanie raised and slapped both hands in exasperation on her bare oversized thighs. “Balls hurt. What about it?”

“Yeah, but—but—“

“Oh, sh#t.” Melanie gave in to the realization she’d have to explain to get this doorknob moving again. She pointed at Fred’s crotch a few feet away.

“Look, there’s nerves in there—easy to hurt—you know that.”

Dumbfounded, Fred could only nod with his open mouth.

“Well some of those nerves, if you pinch ‘em right, causes a guy to pass out. Now let’s go!” She walked back, grabbing Fred by the arm.

“Wait—" Fred was in a protesting mood. “I don’t have that.”

Melanie cocked her head like an inquisitive puppy up at him.

Fred’s voice fell to a peep. “Do I?”

“You certainly do, now come on!” She tugged. Again she tugged. Nothing. Fred couldn’t believe his ears.

“Bullshit!” he finally protested, pulling her back, completely out of character for him. He couldn’t stand the thought. It was too much. She was too little. This couldn’t be true. The fear of his own vulnerability caused him to momentarily grow a backbone and he stupidly chose this moment to hold his ground.

“Look, we’re gonna get caught,” she chided.

“I don’t have that shit. I don’t.”

“Oh, sh#t,” Melanie echoed herself, then, reaching down, grabbed hold of Fred’s crotch, fending off his forearm then closing the pink-nailed vice.

“Oooo-aaaahHHHhhh.”

Thud.

“Fine, you get caught. That’s your business.” Melanie sauntered away, stepping over the prostrate gentleman in the doorway. She would find those files. Wal-Mart would go down if she had to bust a million balls along the way.