For those that don't know, I've started working a part time job at Toys R Us this Christmas season. This, along with a few personally relevant Penny Arcade comics, have led me to start a war journal of my time in retail.

Due to intense budget needs (related to my intense greed) I'm pitching the journal to several different producers and TV channels, starting with the History Channel:


LETTERS FROM THE FRONT

My dearest Isabelle,

It's been several weeks since the fighting started, and I now find myself in pitched battle with the people I recently called brother: the customers.

Not to long ago I would've happily walked amongst their kind, but now I count each damn one of them as my mortal nemesis, to either be quickly destroyed, or assisted with as little effort as possible, whichever is more convenient for me at the time.

Even as I write, I can hear the distant screams of small children, each afflicted with the harshest punishment that God could ever inflict upon one of his creations:

Not immediately receiving the toy they want, the second they demand it.

Their screams will haunt me to my dying day, and I can only hope our sons, Ezekiel, Abraham, Solomon, Moses, and Jesus Von Christenmier will never know the same pain.

This morning I was assigned to deliver a message to the front lines. Come hell or high water, I had to track down one General 'Cindy', and deliver a life or death message regarding Zu Zu pets.

My journey was slightly delayed by the appearance of a striking southern belle, who was specifically striking a coworker of mine when I approached. She wailed on and on about Superman toys, not knowing that Superman hasn't been popular since he died, marking him as the Michael Jackson of superheroes.

Nothing could calm the young beauty, as she emitted cries of 'overstock' and 'check the back room'. My fellow brother in arms feebly did his best to help the hysterical woman, as I resigned myself back to my mission.

The darkest moment during my travels was when I came upon a fallen display. The poor sap once consisted of an even pile of scooters in boxes, but now its body was little more than a jumbled mess. A nearby comrade stopped by, and confirmed my fears.

Gangrene.

The Docs had to literally pull the poor soul apart, and then reassemble him as best they could. As far as I know he survived, but I couldn't stay behind to make sure. I had a message to deliver.

It was then that I realized the comrade who stopped to help me was none other than General 'Cindy'. The strain of war had destroyed all pomp and grandeur that once existed in her position. Now she was indecipherable from the rest of us grunts, apart from the nametag with the word 'Manager' upon it.

In response to my orders, she gave me back an additional message to memorize and destroy, regarding the Star Wars Lego sale.

Having committed its contents to memory, I discarded the message in the safest and surest manner possible: by stuffing it in a cigar box and tossing it into the center of the road.

Well, I have to go now, my love. May the Lord keep you in his loving arms, and not arbitrarily kill you on a whim.

Your loving husband,

Private Robert 'Sales Associate' Freeman

(Private Robert Freeman would survive the dreaded battle of Black Friday, and later perish from a ferocious toddler attack at the battle of Barbie's Dream Mansion.)