Bad Nights and Bath Soaps
Agent Charles “Chuck” Henderson had precisely two regrets that evening.
First, he’d forgotten his wedding anniversary—again—and his wife’s promise to “reenact her favorite episode of true crime” when he got home was delivered with just enough gleeful menace to leave him genuinely unsure whether she was joking or not.
Second, he’d agreed to babysit a brown cardboard box while posing as a delivery man, blending in with the excessively polite locals of Fargo, North Dakota—a place so neighborly it felt practically Canadian—for a covert drop of some terrifying concoction destined for top-secret bunkers that “didn’t exist”. He regretted accepting this mission for several reasons: it was a menial errand beneath his qualifications, it forced him to work overtime and endure a trip to the terribly polite corporate office, and, worst of all, he’d bungled it entirely.
Now one of humanity’s most dangerous secrets lay somewhere in the Midwest, threatening to turn the entire region into a cosmic barbecue.
If asked which predicament frightened him more, the job or his wife, he wouldn’t have had an immediate answer.
He stared at the text on his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. While he read it, he couldn’t help but hear the overly friendly tone of the home office Missions Op.
“Sorry for bothering yous, and we super appreciate the gift of soap and all, but was wondering when we might expect the Property code name 11704B? No rush or anything. Sure you’re busy. But if you don’t mind, could you send us a message back? Thanks.”
Lightning flickered against the motel’s neon sign and a soft mist of rain covered the world. He’d retraced his steps all the way back to this dingy parking lot.
It wasn’t his fault really, misplacing the Property. He had been searching on his phone “anniversary gifts that say ‘I love you,’ ‘I’m stupid,’ and ‘I definitely planned this more than ten minutes ago.’” Nothing had seemed right. Live ferrets, crocheted cozies, pillow in the shape of a banana… that last one might work.
It was barely his fault when his brown box got swapped with that of another, “All-Natural, 100% Vegan, Cruelty-Free, Gluten-Free, Animal-Friendly, Organic Soap.” In hindsight, the big cartoon bubble winking at him should have raised a red flag.
He remembered handing off that box to his contact, who frowned at the suspiciously cheery claims of “ethically hand-stirred synergy.”
Chuck’s gut had twisted in warning, yet he never cracked the lid. Not long after, Corporate’s polite inquiry about the missing Property set off the alarm bells that were now clanging in his skull.
The door to the motel room near Chuck’s drop-off splintered inward under his boot, crashing against the wall with a dramatic flair that would’ve been satisfying if not for the smell. The air hit him like a lavender-scented sledgehammer, thick with notes of citrus, sandalwood, and a faint whiff of despair.
Inside, a man and woman in matching aprons stood at a crooked folding table, funnels and plastic jugs spread out like props from a suspicious high-school chemistry project. Harsh overhead lighting glinted off a small mountain of generic dish soap bottles—cheap stuff all lined up in neat little rows, awaiting fancier labels that promised “Hand-Sculpted Fulfillment” or “Extra Humanity Infused.” Steam rolled off hot plates in the corner.
They both froze, mid-siphon, each gripping a dripping funnel as if it might protect them. A sticky dribble of pastel-pink liquid pattered onto the stained carpet.
“Whoa—hey!” the man yelped, raising both hands, funnel still in one of them. “I didn’t do it! It was her idea!”
He winced as the woman slugged him in the arm. “You lying son of a—”
“Shut it!” Chuck barked. He stepped forward, letting the door swing behind him with a squeal.
He tore open the first box on a nearby stack, releasing a surge of lemon-verbena fumes that stung his eyes. Plastic bottles with pompous leaf motifs toppled out, skidding across the floor as he tore open box after box.
“Where is it?” he growled, rummaging like a spoiled kid on Christmas morning.
The pair exchanged stricken glances, not entirely sure if he was after a secret stash of illicit substances or a missing poodle.
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman managed, voice wobbling. “It’s just soap.”
He tore into the last carton with the look of a man who already knew he wasn’t going to like what he found. When it, too, turned out to be nothing but an avalanche of overly perfumed soap bottles, Chuck sank to the floor in the corner like a deflated balloon, just this side of a nervous breakdown. His head thunked softly against the wall as he muttered, mostly to himself, “If it’s not here, I just don’t know…” He stared blankly at the chaos of broken boxes and frothy puddles before finally groaning, “I’m screwed.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint plop of dripping soap and Chuck’s soul quietly exiting through the soles of his shoes. Then the woman hesitated, her expression shifting somewhere between pity and reluctant helpfulness.
“We, uh…” she started, carefully, like someone poking a wounded bear. “We had more earlier.”
Chuck’s head snapped up so fast you’d think someone had dangled salvation in front of him on a stick. “Earlier?”
She nodded, glancing nervously at her partner before continuing. “Yeah. We shipped ’em out this afternoon. For a new client. Downtown.”
Hope ignited in Chuck’s chest like a single match in a pitch-black cave. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him upright. “Where?” His voice was low, steady—the tone of a man barely holding on.
The man scurried over to a battered laptop that looked like it had been rescued from the 1990s and started typing with the fervor of someone hacking a mainframe. “Perky Beans.”
“Perky Beans? What the hell is that?” Chuck said, standing up so fast the chair protested with a squeak. He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing at it like he could scrape off the lingering residue of lavender and whatever passed for his pride. His thumb found his temple, kneading slow circles, as if he could massage away a lifetime of bad decisions with enough pressure.
“It’s a café. Here,” the man said, scribbling the name and address onto a torn sticker decorated with a grinning cartoon bubble and the words, “Soap you have a great day!” beneath its cheerful thumbs-up.
He took the sticker, nodded, and turned to leave. Three steps later, he stopped dead and pivoted, fixing the two apron-clad “entrepreneurs” with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.
“One more thing,” he said.
They froze, the smell of lavender somehow doubling, thick in the steam-filled air.
“It’s my anniversary today,” he said flatly. “Either of you have any gift ideas?”
The pair exchanged a glance, a slow, wordless conversation heavy with judgment, the kind that said, “We may be peddling soap, but who's the real villain here?”
Chuck waved it off with a grunt. “Forget it.”
He spun toward the door, but his eyes caught on a stack of neatly wrapped bottles perched on a shelf. The label read Indulgence Lux Bath Foam in delicate script. He took a bottle.
Halfway to the exit, he hesitated again, glancing back. “You got any gift wrap?”
Both of them shook their heads in unison, expressions flat. He nodded once before finally stepping out the door.
Soap in hand, he stepped into the cool air, the sharp bite of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume clinging to him like a second skin. The rain picked up. Yeah, this was going to be one hell of a long night.
***
Jerry wiped down the counter at the Perky Beans Café with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d rather be doing anything else. The rain hammered the windows—furious, relentless, and about as comforting as an out-of-tune violin. A fitting soundtrack, really, for a shift he was covering for his boss and recently ex-girlfriend Melanie, who was off gallivanting at some fancy restaurant with Kyle. Kyle, the guy that drove a truck and called everyone “bro” in a tone that said he meant it unironically.
The overhead lights flickered, giving the café a strobe-like gloom. Two teenagers with matching hoodies were huddled in a corner booth, sipping oversized ice blended Crappuccinos. Jerry glanced at them, then at the clock. Just a few more minutes until closing time. He wanted to scream at them to finish up, but politeness and the fear of human interaction held him back. Instead, he stared at the rag in his hand—threadbare and smelling faintly of sour milk—and resumed wiping.
“Um, excuse me,” came a voice that was clearly dissatisfied with something that Jerry couldn’t care less about.
He ducked down, pretending to scrub a hard-to-reach spot, and pulled out his phone. Before unlocking it, his eyes caught his reflection in the glossy, black screen—a distorted, faintly mocking version of himself staring back.
Jerry’s hair was a permanent tangled mess of brown that refused to be tamed no matter how many brushes or combs he sacrificed to the cause. He was a little too thin, but his gangly limbs compensated by always being in the way. In short, he was… nothing special. He wore a pair of battered jeans and scuffed sneakers—which were blatantly against café rules.
Not that he minded, really. Sure, he had wanted to have some quirky, standout trait—something people could point to and say, “Yeah, that’s Jerry.” Over the years, he’d tried to force a few into existence. There was the Dungeons & Dragons phase. He’d even DM’d a couple of campaigns, thinking maybe that would be his thing. It wasn’t.
Cars? Meh. He had one. A Prius. Eco-friendly. Melanie had helped him pick it out, back when...
Video games? Sure, when he had time, which was increasingly rare these days. But even there, he wasn’t particularly skilled or competitive—just good enough to get by without embarrassing himself too often.
He scrolled his phone just about as much as the average teen… which was probably an issue because he was well into his twenties.
If he had to define his uniqueness, it was probably that he was entirely average in almost every way.
Well, except for old movies. He loved those. And puns. He had a soft spot for anything groan-worthy and wordplay-related. But still, that didn’t exactly set the world on fire. Jerry was the human equivalent of pumpkin spice in the fall—reliable, safe, and entirely predictable. The kind of person who said autumn was their favorite season.
He sighed, staring off into nothing. It wasn’t a bad life. Just... a painfully average one. Without realizing it, he clicked his screen the life and started doomscrolling his socials. His feed was a glorious mess:
Some new dance trend featuring a rotating cast of identically unique influencers, wiggling to a tune that hadn’t yet made it onto local radio.
A guy sporting a man bun and a flowing floral dress, passionately discussing the importance of self-care.
A pimply but excited face. He turned up the volume on his Earpods. “Tonight’s the night people! The world’s largest hydron collider powers on at 11 PM!”
Jerry felt a spike of mild interest; he liked science. Not in a stuffy, I’ve-actually-read-quantum-mechanics way, but more in a curious, what-if-all-of-this-blows-up-the-planet way.
He was about to watch another quick video—someone had posted a raccoon dancing to the same track—when the voice butted in again, louder.
“Uh! Excuse me… sir!”
Jerry sighed and locked the phone. “Yeah?”
“Um, you made my drink wrong.”
He looked up at the woman in front of him. She was holding a cardboard cup with the name “Timothy” scrawled in black marker.
Jerry forced a customer-service smile. But underneath, something was already starting to crack.
“Oh, did I? I’m really sorry, Timothy. This was one-hundred-percent my mistake.”
“Yeah, well…” She blinked, confusion and irritation battling on her face. “Wait, what did you call me?”
“I’m terribly sorry, did I pronounce it wrong. Do you prefer Tim? Maybe Timmy?”
“My name is Rebecca,” she spat with the kind of rage that could only come from a true and deep understanding of the cosmic injustice of it all.
“Are you sure?”
Her cheeks went an angry shade of pink. “I think I know my own name!”
Jerry’s faux grin widened as he pointed to the cup. “I’m sure you do, Timmy. Which is why I’m equally sure that must be your name—seeing as that’s the name on your cup.”
She sputtered with indignation, glanced at the cup, then somehow managed to flush an even deeper shade of red, now bordering on indigo. “I’d like to speak to your manager.”
Ah, sweet music to his ears. If there was any justice in the universe, the manager—his ex—would deal with this meltdown tomorrow. Small victories, he thought.
“Please do,” he said, his voice smooth as an oiled hinge. “Her name’s Melanie. She’ll be in tomorrow at noon. Tall, with kind of a… specific look. Sort of like you, actually.”
“I will be speaking to her.” Rebecca—or Timothy—spun on her heel, her frustration practically vibrating off her. She stomped toward the door, her movements sharp and deliberate, but stopped just short of leaving. With a dramatic flourish, she hurled her cup at the floor. The lid popped off on impact, large half-caf, no foam cappuccino erupting in a sticky cascade that spread like a crime scene across the tile.
Jerry watched the mess with detached amusement. He couldn’t help but shake his head at the drink. Half-caf, no foam cappuccino.
She didn’t stick around to savor the chaos. The glass door slammed behind her as she stormed into the rain, shaking the coffee mugs on display until they clattered to the floor beside the coffee puddle in protest.
“By all means.” Jerry’s voice carried just enough indifference to make it sting. “Have a great night… Karen.” He’d seen worse. Much worse.
Why not ask for a decaf red-eye, or an extra hot, iced latte while you are at it?
Half-caf, no foam cappuccino. The epitome of someone who can’t make up their mind.
No foam? A cappuccino is literally half foam. That’s its whole deal!
You take away the foam, what do you even have?
Milk with self-esteem issues? Maybe that’s my problem? I’m too… half-caf, no foam.
Jerry paused mid-thought, realizing his inner monologue was spiraling into the kind of pretentious coffee snobbery he despised in other people. He reminded himself that wasn’t even sure how to pronounce “macchiato” half the time, and felt a little better. Mocky-a-tuh? Mack-ee*-ah*-toe? Match-ee- auto ?
The teenagers were next to go, shuffling out with their phones in hand, thumbs tapping furiously.
One of the hoodies looked up at him and said, “I got the whole thing—she was totally in the wrong.” Jerry didn’t need to look; he already knew they’d be posting the video tomorrow, gleefully feeding it to the insatiable beast of public shame. If his job hadn’t already been dangling by a thread, this guaranteed the scissors.
Not that he cared. Screw it. Let Melanie deal with this, with her shiny new boyfriend or whatever he was. Jerry was done.
The door swung shut behind them, leaving the place in silence. Well, almost. The acoustic version of “Back That Booty Up” continued its soft, syrupy whine through the speakers, cheerful against the aftermath of the chaos. Jerry sighed, trudged to the back, and killed the music.
He took a moment to absorb the quiet.
In the back storage area, he filled up a bucket and dragged it out. Grabbing the mop, he stared down at the sticky mess splattered across the tile like a cappuccino crime scene.
“All’s well that ends well,” he muttered, and got to work.
The overhead fluorescent buzzed. Rain battered the roof in thick sheets, and thunder rumbled in the distance. He finished a few tasks and then headed to the back.
He rummaged through a cardboard box labeled “Eco-Friendly Soap—Lavender Dream.” He glanced at the winking soap bubble, then Jerry threw a sarcastic thumbs-up, mimicking the cartoon. He hadn’t ordered it; his ex had. Pastel packaging must’ve won her heart. Jerry pulled out a large, unlabeled container of thick, green sludge. Instead of being worried about the neon glow, he was more curious that there were no instructions.
Property 11704B—weird branding. This stuff looks way more industrial than I thought. How much should I use? I’ll do a little less than usual, just in case. He shrugged and pried off the lid.
Lightning flashed through the windows behind him, casting the green liquid in his hand with an eerie glow, like some radioactive ooze from an old B-movie. Jerry tipped the bottle, aiming for a dash—just a dash—he jumped as a loud thunderclap shook the windows, and the entire container of neon-green cascaded out into the bucket. He muttered a sharp curse.
The bucket erupted into a frothy mess, the water churning and hissing like a miniature sea during a storm. Jerry stared at it, the suds rising higher than they had any right to. “Great,” he mumbled, watching his cleaning solution writhe and froth.
“Well, serves them right. Should have stuck with the normal stuff,” he muttered to no one. He wasn’t sure who “they” were—maybe the entire stupid café chain, or the ex who’d forced him into this shift—but the thought of wasting a bit of the expensive soap gave him a grim bit of satisfaction.
He dunked the mop into the foaming solution, barely noticing how it vibrated against the tile. With one earbud in, Jerry glanced back at his phone. More social media chaos:
A horrifyingly catchy jingle advertising a new burger place.
A comedic skit about alien abductions that was trending.
Another reminder: T-minus 5 minutes to the hydron collider’s big moment. A countdown timer flashed across the screen.
Jerry swapped to a trending feed—people doing comedic jump-cuts of them transforming from pajamas to ball gowns, then someone talking about the latest DoomQuake game coming out. His focus was so pinned on the screen that he barely noticed the pungent smell of coffee mixed with the odd acidic scent from the “soap”. Jerry’s black apron brushed against his jeans, soaked at the edges from some of it that had spilled on him.
He eyed the little pins on his lanyard: tiny trophies from a time when the café actually cared about its baristas. One for “Fastest Drink Preparation,” one for “Group Recognition,” another for “Always Going the Extra Mile.” They felt a bit like Boy Scout badges or Achievements in a game. His old manager used to say, “The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra.”
Jerry shook his head at the thought. He had believed him back then. That was until the corporate buyout happened. The old manager left, and all that “extra” turned into flavor syrups and artificially sweetened drinks. Expensive sugar, milk, and caffeine at dangerously high doses.
His black apron used to mean something—a mark of distinction, a quiet nod to his skill, for whatever that was worth. And if he was being honest, he didn’t mind the job itself. It was just all the people… primarily the ones he worked with. It was covered in liquid from him messily splashing the mop around.
Thunder boomed again. Jerry lifted his head, swirling the mop in the bucket without looking, the green solution frothing violently. He didn’t see the sparks flickering near the plastic handle or notice the way the foam inched upward toward his hand, or the green liquid crawling it’s way up his apron.
Outside, the headlights of a large truck cut through the downpour, bright and urgent. Jerry’s eyes tracked the silhouette approaching the door and sighed deeply. A figure in a long coat rattled the handle.
“Sorry, sir, we’re closed,” Jerry called, raising his voice over the rumble of the storm. He increased the volume on his phone, ignoring the frantic gestures from the man outside. Rainwater sluiced off the man’s brimmed hat; he tried the locked door again, more forcefully.
Jerry twisted the mop in the bucket, rolling his eyes. “We’re closed,” he repeated. “Is there a sign I can get to make it clearer?”
Suddenly, the figure pulled something metallic from his coat. With a flash and a deafening crack, the door handle shattered. Jerry’s stomach dropped. A gun. The man kicked the door, forcing it open. Rain spilled in, wind howling.
“Where is it?” the man shouted against the wind.
Jerry took an involuntary step back. The bucket of green froth teetered precariously at his feet. The damp floor was a skating rink of spilled cappuccino and water, made worse by the small tide now flooding in from the open door. Lightning flashed outside, painting the intruder in a strobe of white-blue.
Jerry’s heart hammered. “Where is what?”
The man stepped forward, and Jerry instinctively jerked back, his sneakers losing traction. He slipped, feet flying into the air, and reality slowed to a crawl. In that split second, the world decided it was time. The clock ticked to 11 PM, the same moment the hydron collider ignited somewhere deep underground on the other side of the world. As if on cosmic cue, a burst of lightning slammed into a nearby power line. The café lights flickered, dimmed, then came roaring back with a metallic hum.
His heart thundered. He could almost taste ozone on the air, like a fuse burning down to an inevitable explosion.
He flailed, arms pinwheeling. The bucket toppled, sloshing neon green foam across the floor and into the air—and onto Jerry’s jeans, shirt, arms, face, everything. Electricity arced from the doorframe, traveling through the water that would soon connect Jerry to the building’s wiring. A burning smell filled the air. The phone in his hand sparked and died.
Static crackled all around him, tearing up his back and through his jeans, radiating through his limbs with a painful hum. He could feel the power surging through his body, locking every muscle in place.
For the fleeting moment that Jerry hung suspended in the air, he felt like an unwitting participant in some grand cosmic ballet. Time seemed to pause, stretching the instant into eternity. The world below him froze in startling clarity, every detail sharpened to an almost painful precision, as though the universe wanted to ensure he wouldn’t miss a single thing in the chaos of its creation.
The man with the gun had that grim, resigned look, the kind that said he’d been expecting this—like the universe was just taking its daily shot at him, and today it was electricity. Sparks danced up his body, sending his limbs into a jittery audition for some avant-garde ballet. The man’s coat flared out in a way that might’ve been dashing under less electrocution-y circumstances, and from its depths, a bottle of Indulgence Lux Bath Foam somersaulted into the air, spinning like it thought this was its moment to shine.
Soap, cappuccino, and raw electricity danced around Jerry in sizzling arcs. The intruder’s silhouette blurred, replaced by streaks of white. There was a dull roar like the ocean in Jerry’s ears. His mouth tasted like burnt metal.
Somewhere behind that roar, a single rational thought flickered: Well, shit.
And then, time resumed its relentless march. Jerry crashed to the floor, the world bursting into a painful, brilliant flash. The chemical slime coated his limbs, and he felt every muscle convulse under the electric surge. Thunder crashed nearby, shattering the windows around them.
Jerry’s teeth chattered, and somewhere in his delirium, he wondered if the next heartbeat might crack his chest.
Then everything went white, and Jerry’s consciousness dissolved into a deep black that was neither comforting nor calm. It was just empty. The last thing Jerry could remember thinking was, At least I won’t have to serve coffee or deal with customers ever again.