Category:  Humor
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers:	*Very* slight for Dreamland II
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em.  CC does.
Archive:	Nowhere, thank you.
Feedback:  Oh, please.	:::::batting long-lashed kitten eyes:::::::

Summary:  Yet another side to Domestic!Frohike.

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MINXES, MANDROIDS & SALSA
by DBKate, 1998
dbkate@yahoo.com
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He wasn't falling for it again.

No, he -knew- better this time. It'd become all too obvious, once
given the proper amount of thought. Too damn obvious, at least to a
man who knew all about the hidden dangers that lay in wait for the
unaware at your "friendly" local supermarket.

It was The Wheel again.

That's right. The old "broken" shopping cart wheel routine. It was
always the same one, the front left wheel, refusing to cooperate.  A
sticking, squeaking, rudely out of control "failure" of mechanics,
making each turn through the market a logistical nightmare.  But it
was just another minor inconvenience, nothing more, right?

A little bump on the road to good old American consumerism.  Right?

Yeah, right.  Broken wheel his ass.

Just how stupid did they think Melvin Frohike was?

He knew that The Wheel was a ruse.  A ruse to ensure he'd use one of
the carts that "They" wanted him to use.  The one with the implanted
microphones, the minuscule video cameras, the scanners -- the
otherworldly magnets.  The hypno-rays.

Well, they could kiss his ass.

He'd take the crippled cart, and beat them at their own little game,
hands down.

Frohike slowly strolled the aisles, his password, "casual."  "They"
knew that he'd taken the "bad" cart on purpose, foiling them, even
as he struggled at every turn.  He wouldn't be able to get away with
it again, a least not in this store, but there were plenty of other
supermarkets to hit on the east coast before he'd be reduced to
shopping at the inner city bodegas.

Then, the home growing and canning would start, but there was still
time before that eventuality.

And wouldn't -that- freak the bastards out?

Hitting the produce aisle, Frohike carefully dug through the lettuce
heads, methodically avoiding the genetically engineered,
experimentally infected ones that were always on top.  Of course,
all the produce he brought back would have to be analyzed, tested
and irradiated before consumption, but, an ounce of prevention goes
a long way.

Melvin Frohike hadn't survived this long on good looks alone, baby.

He picked up a bag of carrots, wincing as one of his flesh-colored
latex gloves slipped and rolled down around his wrist.  Dropped the
bag as if it were poison, and quickly tugged the glove back into
place.  Blanched and heaved a sigh of relief.

God, that was close.

Mopped his brow, and shook his head at the sight of the other
shoppers, completely unaware of the danger they were in.  Look at
all of them.  Picking through their doom with unprotected fingers,
throwing it into their wired wagons, thinking that a quick rinse
under ordinary tap water will save them from their sad, but
inevitable, fate.

Can't rinse off branched DNA, you poor fools.

Frohike struggled toward the condiment aisle, making sure to give
the dairy department a wide berth.  Goddamn experimental cows, force
grown from calf to adult in hours, each and every one of them a two-
headed, ten-uddered beast, whose only reason for existence was to
spread the scientific "advancements" of an evil empire.

Yeah, have some cheese and a big glass of milk.  Go on.  Have some.

And enjoy some flesh-eating disease while you're at it, pal.

And those -chickens-!  If they only knew the horror lurking in those
Hatcheries from Hell with each and every bird carefully designed to
bring a small bit of the Apocalypse right into your very own
kitchen.

Would Melvin Frohike eat an egg?  Yeah, right.

Why not just pick up a gun, fry it sunny side up, stick in your
mouth and pull the trigger, buddy?

Shaking his head, he sniffed and peered at the salsa jars lined up
before him in their oddly uniform rows.  Now, which one?  Or did it
even matter?

They were all the same underneath, full of the latest designer
chemicals from the Pentagon.  Sighing, he read the labels carefully
and decided that "calcium disodium edta" was just as good, or bad,
as "titanium dioxide number five."

He'd simply have to hope that Langley got that food analysis program
debugged before lunch time.

Giving the unruly cart another hard shove, Frohike was distracted by
a thin stream of music wafting out from the overhead
speakers.	Wait a minute.  What song is that?

Oh, no.  It's "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head"

Good God,  they knew who he was!  All cameras were trained on him
now, along with laser target finders and the barrels of at least
four high-powered rifles.

Damn it.

Well, thank God for lightweight Kevlar, he thought, giving his chest
an experimental knock.  Just don't aim for the head, you bastards.

Don't want a mess in the pickle aisle, do you boys?

Feeling a sudden and overwhelming urge to leave,  Frohike headed
toward the checkout counter with the usual trepidation.  There was
no way to avoid this area, and it made him miserable every time.
Look at those bar code scanners; identifying, classifying and doing
God knows what else to each and every customer passing by their
unblinking mechanical eyes.

And look at that cashier -- a smiling little minx of a gal,
seductive red apron neatly pressed and tied at the small of her well
rounded backside, tempting foolish customers with her cheery grin
and "have a nice day" inanities.  Her long brown hair, clipped up at
the nape of her smooth neck, and her bright green eyes twinkling
with studied carelessness, hiding the fact that she was one of
"them"  -- a mandroid, possibly a killer one, no doubt shucking her
A&P togs at sunset to ride off into the night, black leather and
guns blazing.

Boy, was she hot.

*Really* hot.

But that's the whole point, isn't it?  Go on.  Take her home, buddy,
go ahead.

You know that three thong snaps and one cigar later your DNA will be
on the CIA's main database for the entire world to see.  Maybe even
to replicate, filling the world with hundreds of little Frohikes,
unaware that their "father" was just one more victim of yet another
synthetic seductress.

Well, try your best, you little mandroid minx.

Melvin Frohike's got your number.

Look at her long fingers grasping those carrots.  Sliding them over
the scanner with studied ease.  Humming some little tune as she
rings up the total, letting "them" know that I'm here, and not
falling one iota for their little games.

"Fourteen dollars and ten cents, sir," she says, oh-so-sweetly.

Oh, she's good.  -Real- good.

But not good enough.

Frohike slapped down the exact change and took off like a flash for
the exit, wincing once more as the automatic doors gave him one last
scan.  He grabbed the bags from the cart and ran for the van, which,
with any luck, Byers would have already started, so as to peel the
hell out of that detention camp disguised as a food emporium before
they all were rounded up and handed over as enemies of the state.

And as he ran, puffing past yet more "broken" carts and oblivious
shoppers,  Melvin Frohike made a lightning fast decision.

He didn't give a damn whose turn it was tonight.

He who survives the shopping, does *not* do the cooking.

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end :-)
dbkate@yahoo.com