You browse the automotive aisle casually, nosing over the various bottles of cleaners, chemicals, and additives. Occasionally you grab an item from the shelves, scan the rear of the package, and place it back where you found it.
A service rep notices you perusing the selection and approaches you. He can't be older than nineteen, and his comically ill-fitting blue vest flaps wildly around his slender frame in rhythm with his rapid gait.
"Hello! What can I help you find today, sir?" he asks with a genuine smile. The world has been kind to this young man so far. He will learn.
"I don't think you can help me, buddy." you reply, turning away from him and grabbing a yellow bottle of fuel additive from the shelf in front of you.
"I'm sure I can, sir!" he argues. "They train us up pretty well here!" His resolve is admirable, but his naïveté is heartbreaking.
You give out a tired sigh. "Son, you ever killed a man?" The back of the bottle you hold may have been mistaken for a French's mustard bottle if it weren't for the skull and crossbones and DANGER: POISON warning in between the paragraphs of instructions.
"Now don't answer that, son, I know you haven't. Your cheerful disposition precludes that you've ripped the mortal coil from the throats of another human being."
"There may come a time when you're given a choice to do so. Hopefully not in this job, that'd be weird, but at some point in your life. If it's your or him, my friend, you do what you have to do. Otherwise, don't. You'll still have to face yourself in the mirror every day, and let me tell you, after you can no longer stand the sight of the monster that wears your skin, replacing a mirror every few days gets expensive."
"Free advice, boy. Now ring me up, I got poison to drink."