 It takes a certain kind of person to work night shifts. Most people can't fathom the idea of getting up when the sun sets and going to bed when she rises again. I've been at Carter's convenience for three years now, and in that time I've had around 20 potential coworkers try out the overnight shift with me. They usually last a few weeks before asking to be moved to the day shifts or just quitting entirely. We find they just can't handle long hours of doing nothing but basic store upkeep at a time when they normally be fast asleep. Me? I don't mind. For one thing, I've always been something of a night owl, preferring the calm and solitude of the night to the glaring sun and frantic hustle of the daytime. And while my colleagues have to deal with dozens, sometimes even hundreds of customers over the source of a single day, I usually only have one or two dozen customers on an average night. And let me tell you, there are some colorful characters who frequent convenience stores in the middle of the night. You've got the drunk stumbling home from the bar after last call looking to buy a six-pack to keep the party going, and some ibuprofen for the morning if they're smart. You've got the stoners who just need their 3am twinkies. You've got the haggard spouses making a midnight grocery run because their pregnant wives had sudden cravings for pickles and peanut butter. You've got the other nightshifters like myself stopping in for a few necessities after work. And lastly, you've got the regulars, a particular type of customer who only comes to the store at night and only shop at Carter's convenience for certain special products we offer. One such regular paid a visit last night, as he does every week. He comes every Friday night, or Saturday morning, if we're being technical, at 2.22am on the dot. I had my nose buried in a book when I heard the bell above the door let out a dainty ding. I glanced at the digital clock I kept next to the cash register, saw the acid green triple twos, and didn't even bother taking my eyes off the clock. Evening Jenkins, I said. Evening, Hubert, my boy, came the raspy reply. Yep, right on schedule. I looked up at Mr. Jenkins standing at a towering seven foot nine with skin like a 16th century tombstone. He was clad in his usual attire for his weekly trip to Carter's convenience, a dark overcoat that's stank of graveyard dirt, black gloves over spindly fingers, gray trilby atop his balding head, rounded glasses with jet black lenses perched on a smashed pug nose. He smiled as he tipped his hat at me mouth full of jagged teeth, the color of rotten lemons. What's on the reading list this week? Jenkins asked in his grinding gravel voice. In response, I lifted my book to show the cover of crime and punishment and he nodded. Ah, Dostoevsky, a classic that one. Yeah, bought this book years ago, but only just now getting around to reading it. I said as I set the novel down, couldn't let it gather dust on my shelf any longer. Jenkins chuckled. Well, you know what old Sam Clemmons said about the classics. They're the books that everyone wants to have read, but nobody wants to actually read. Yeah, sounds about right. Pretty good read so far though. I grabbed a keyring off of a hook under the counter and stood up from my stool. Just the usual this week. If you'd be so kind. The two of us made our way to the back of the store, fluorescent lights humming steadily overhead. We walked past the shelves lined with foodstuff and toiletries and pharmaceuticals and other sun dries, basic goods for when you need to make a trip out for two or three things, but don't want to go all the way to a grocery or department store. At the rear of the shop, I unlocked the door to the refrigerated section and stepped inside. Jenkins followed closely behind. From there, I inserted another key into a second lock. This one nestled between the shelves holding the milk and beer. As the tumblers clicked, a part of the back wall slid away with a rumble. Here's what we've got. I said shivering slightly in the chilly air. Jenkins pursed his lips as he surveyed his options. Some of the jars on the shelves of the hidden alcove contained a wide assortment of hands, feet and other body parts. Others contained nothing but crimson handwritten labels detailing the blood types they held. One extra large jar had the head of a middle-aged male floating in amber liquid, glassy eyes staring at nothing. Not much of a selection this week, Jenkins noted with a frown. In fact, I'm pretty sure I saw some of these last Friday. It's been a slow week for inbound shipments, I said with a shrug. The boss is expecting some fresh goods sometime in the next two or three days. Sorry I can't do much for you now, though. Quite alright, my boy. I know how business gets sometimes. He pursed his lips. I guess I'll take. Jenkins was cut off by the sound of a slamming door, making us both jump. We turned through the foggy glass of the refrigerator doors and passed the shelves lined with cold goods. We saw a masked man, clad in all black, sweater, pants, gloves, and a ski mask. He quickly looked around, then ran behind the counter and started fiddling with the cash register, smacking a handgun against the side. I sighed. Jenkins blinked. Oh, well, that's a bit of good luck right there. He said, turning to me. Shall I take care of this, Hubert? I know greeting the customers is supposed to be your thing, but… Yeah, go ahead. I said, wrapping my arms around myself. Just, uh, make it fast, I'm freezing my balls off in here, and try not to make it too messy, please. Jenkins answered, with a predatory grin, bearing those pus-colored chompers. No promises, but I'll do my best. With that, he swaggered out into the store, freezer door swinging shut behind him. Evening, my good sir. I heard Jenkins say, his scratchy voice muffled. Terribly sorry, but I'm afraid only employees are allowed behind the counter. The would-be robber jumped. He visibly flinched at the side of Jenkins and quickly raised his firearm in a trembling hand. F-freeze! The thief shouted, a tremor in his voice. Don't move! But Jenkins surged forward. Fast, cleared the distance from one end of the store to the other in a fraction of a second. So fast that the poor crook didn't have time to get a shot off before Jenkins was upon him, dragging him behind the counter. A primal scream of raw terror echoed through Carter's convenience, which abruptly ended in a choking gurgle. A spray of blood shot up to splatter against the wall, and I sighed again. This had to happen after I cleaned for the evening. Retail work. Am I right?