To kill time and entertain myself I’ll walk through a store like a
Target or Publix and watch the people and try to figure out which one
is The Thing and how best to dispose of them before they infect the
others. At a Wal-Mart I know I’m the only one who isn’t
The Thing. The result is that I get thoughts of exterminating the whole
lot before they get better taste in stores and ruin the world.

This isn’t an anarchist blog nor a snobby one. I am
a snob [if I could shop exclusively at Whole Foods and The Fresh Market
for groceries I would], but my hate for Wal-Mart has nothing to do with
the business model or delightful deals they offer. Oftentimes Wal-Mart
is a beacon of salvation in rural areas. Whenever we’d visit St. Simons
Island in the 90’s there was no denying that one must visit the Super
Wal-Mart in Brunswick because otherwise there was no enjoying life
without it. Remote locations are just shitholes in the wild until a
Wal-Mart arrives and then they have evolved into the next awful phase
of whatever their existence is. Wal-Mart is the weekend’s festivities
for many folks stuck out in the middle of nowhere. One of my formerly
close friends has a beach house in Port St. Joe on the Florida
Panhandle and the remoteness of the house was the key, but we had to
make a few 30-minute treks to Wal-Mart to preserve our lives, because
there’s only so many times someone should visit The Trembling Pork*.

The problem with Wal-Mart is the people.

I
don’t mind that low income families and a lot of the immigrants both
legal and illegal flock to it for reasons logical and sane. I also
don’t mind that some folks have no other geographical choice [though
it’s not entirely impossible to relocate your life if your current life
sucks] and go there due to necessity. Wal-Mart is to many a
supermarket, a bait and tackle shop, and the place to clothe your
family on the cheap.

For the rest of the Lovecraftian entities patrolling the store, they are fair game to be ridiculed and pointed and laughed at.

Wal-Mart is not a place to go unless you are forced to by location or resources.

I
went to one of these horrible stores to pick up a crib for the oncoming
plague/infant provided by a generous relative, an event my wife prepped
me for with a pot of coffee and no other chores (she knows of my
disdain). I didn’t bother being the proverbial Macready to their
proverbial body-inhabiting space beings. I was outnumbered and it
seemed that the Blairmonster had set up shop in the lingerie aisle
already.

The
Wal-Mart in question is located on Mansell Road in Roswell, Georgia.
Once a really affluent area, Roswell has aged decently, though once you
cross Holcomb Bridge Road on Highway 9 you’d best know at least
Spanish, Korean, and Klingon. The rest of Roswell is still quite nice.
There are plenty of shopping options. Enough to make me wonder why the
people I saw had descended down from the mountains near military base
from The Mist to shop.

Twisted,
distorted white people. Morbidly obese, rail-thin, and very little in
between. It was as if the carnival had come through town having
responded to fliers that read “bring us your hideous, malformed, and
surprisingly not handicapped”. These are regular, “healthy” people, but
ones seemingly run through a Photoshop filter in life. Spherized,
Distended, Amalgamated, and Disturbing. Weird hair on head and face and
beyond. Eyes that darted around as if hoping to spot the alien bounty
hunter before it spotted them. Tongues that flicked in and out as if
tasting the air for human fear to prey on.

In short, the weirdest and ugliest group of people I’ve ever seen outside of a comic book convention.

I was lucky to get the crib and leave before the shunting began.

What
is it about Wal-Mart that summonds the misanthropes, cast-offs, and
Moorlocks among us? Was it a curse which befell the Walton family? Was
it something tied to a Skull & Bones ritual long thought lost to
time? Was it a response to the end of Hitler’s reign by the forces of
the night?

Or is it that the foul needs a place to shop too?

Either way, I ain’t going back without my flamethrower.




* Piggly Wiggly to you.