Head back, hands on his belt, he saunters into the store almost daily. After surveying the premises, he calmly makes his way to the back. No chillies today. He takes two bananas from the "fresh" section-- no second-rate bananas for this man.
Even at the cash register he does not focus directly on the person serving him, but keeps alert to all the shoppers-- one never knows when shit's about to go down. Just two months ago some teen girls nabbed a pensioner's purse as she set it on the ledge to look at the Royal Galas.
Yes, technically Atkinson's Fruit Shop is not his responsibility. But a mere two shops down, one can never be over-vigilant. If crime struck this small fruit shop, the reputation could quickly spread and topple even the mighty Somerfields. It's his job, dammit, and he takes it seriously.
There is talk amongst the fruit-shop employees that the gravity with which he treats his job, as well as his insatiable desire for hot chillies and bananas, is due to some inner doubt that his toned physique and manly strut can't fix. Do these phallic foods hold the key to his psyche? Or will we learn more from his carefully buzzed sun-whitened hair? You truly are a mystery, Somerfields Security Guard.
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