KILLER SERIAL by Tom Bradley

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EVEN THOUGH there are industrial-sized containers of the stuff in the back room, Spencer removes a blister-packet of Lemmy ketchup from his own pocket.

"It's not about stealing," he repeats. "I'm not a stealer."

After carefully laying down his customary tomato slick, Spencer plants his shoes, ever so precisely, in the redness.

Here among the crates of lunch-meat, pizzas, and microwave-friendly fish burgers, Spencer assumes the cliched shooter-stance: pistol held solidly in both hands, poised at arm's length.

When, and if, the college boy comes back here, Spencer wants to be ready, so as not to be caught off-guard. He keeps an eye on the security monitor that hangs from the ceiling.

ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Spencer's waiting yet, body and gun patiently poised.

On the security monitor, the intended victim still slops the gods in blurred black and white. There's no sound, so Spencer quickly disengages one hand from the pistol, just long enough to reach out and open a refrigerator case. Resuming his stance, he eavesdrops between popsicle shelves that open onto the sales area.

Not only are the morbidly obese folks fatter than the Lemuel's crowd, but they're much more prone to walrus-like flopping violence. The stuff they consume makes them mean. Disputes constantly flare up.

On the monitor, a slight shadow dives between vast gray blobs.

THE COLLEGE BOY is in heaven as bellies and breasts squash him flat. He quakes in spiritual ecstasy.

"Believe me. More than any sex activity I could ever imagine, I would love to see you folks fight. But the boss would fire me if I punched out leaving major structural damage to the building. Then I could no longer be priest in this temple which was built and consecrated to serve you!"

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