Tiny Tales

“That’s it, I want to speak to your manager…”, Karen looked at the “double meatballs footlong sandwich” that could only, at best, be described as 11.5 inches in length, and she was reminded of her ex-husband, not for the reason you are thinking but because he too was lacking in the sandwich department and she could tolerate many shortcomings but none pertaining to lunch, plus she only counted 7 meatballs, which clearly couldn’t be double anything unless the original had 3.5 meatballs which she considered highly unlikely and therefore the matter deserved to be escalated swiftly.

She looked up to see an alien cleanly disconnect Bob, the shift supervisor’s, head from his torso.

She turned back to the clerk: “…‘s manager”.

An intentionally “bad” piece of flash fiction, similar to the now-defunct Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest.