Restocking the Abyss

Clearance Day

Sunday was always clearance day, the holy grail of retail chaos. For Bob, Friday was technically his Saturday, so the last thing he did before clocking out was toss the Christmas socks into the clearance bin, ready to be sold off the next day.

He double-checked with Trevor first.

“Sell ‘em,” Trevor said with a shrug. “They don’t seem dangerous. And besides, except for that weird handle thing, nothing’s been too crazy yet.”

So Bob followed orders. They were just socks, after all. Weird socks, but socks nonetheless.

But by Monday morning, things got... complicated.

The first red flag came in the form of a call from the front of the store. A customer had come back demanding more socks, those socks, and security had already been alerted. It wasn’t just any customer. This was a meth head—barefoot except for the very same T-Rex Christmas socks Bob had tossed into clearance the day before.

Bob didn’t hear about the commotion until after the situation spiraled out of control.

The guy was twitchy, erratic—muttering nonsense and flailing his arms like he was warding off invisible bats. Security tried to calm him down, but he only got more aggressive, screeching about “needing the others.”

Trevor was the first on the scene. The security guys weren’t sure if this dude was hallucinating or just extremely passionate about festive footwear. But when they tried to subdue him, the socks—those stupid green socks with the T-Rex in a Santa hat—ripped.

And the moment they tore? The guy crumpled. Like a puppet whose strings had been severed. One second he was a human whirlwind, the next, a heap on the floor, limp and silent. The security guards just looked at each other in stunned silence, unsure whether they’d accidentally performed an exorcism.

They quickly cuffed him and hauled him off to the waiting squad car, but the incident didn’t sit right. Trevor replayed the security footage over and over. Bob, wide-eyed and sipping his coffee, watched alongside him in the stockroom.

"So... he was fine until the socks ripped?" Bob muttered, tilting his head like a confused dog.

"Yup," Trevor confirmed, rubbing his face. "Soon as the socks gave out, he folded like a cheap lawn chair."

A long silence followed. Bob took another sip of his coffee.

“Okay,” Bob finally said, setting down his cup. “New plan. Maybe we, uh… don’t sell this stuff.”

Trevor nodded slowly. “Yeah. That seems… safe.”

They both stared at the screen for another long moment, watching the replay of the meth head's instant collapse.

“So… what do we do with the weird stuff then?” Bob asked.

Trevor scratched his head. “Make a box in the corner. Just toss everything questionable in there until we’ve got a full load or...” He shrugged. “...until someone braver than us figures it out.”

They agreed right there: No more clearance sales for the strange items. Meth heads and mysterious artifacts were a bad combination, and if they played with that fire again, they might get burned worse.

From that day on, the weird stuff went straight into "The Box."

Bob didn’t know what would happen when The Box filled up—honestly, he didn’t want to know. But that was a problem for future Bob and Trevor. For now, they just needed to keep things from spiraling any further out of control.

And if a few more socks showed up?

Well... they knew where to hide them.

The Runaway Ball Bearing

The first new shelves appeared quietly, tucked away on 7.5 G—one on the top, one on the bottom. It was nothing remarkable at first, just more space for knick-knacks, overstock, or, in Bob’s case, things that probably didn’t belong.

On 7.5 G bottom, Bob found it: a smooth, silver ball bearing, about the size of a marble. It looked innocent enough, just sitting there. But the moment Bob tried to pick it up, it slipped from his fingers like it was coated in grease.

“Damn it.”

The ball clinked softly against the metal shelf, then—plink—rolled underneath. Bob dropped to his knees, craning his neck to get a better look.

He could hear it rolling, this little metallic tick-tick-tick bouncing off the concrete floor. But weirdly, no matter how hard he squinted or how many angles he tried, he couldn’t actually see the thing. It sounded close, like it should’ve been right in front of him, but every time he thought he had its location pinned down... the sound seemed to shift, like it was one step ahead.

He felt a twinge of annoyance.

"Okay, you wanna play that game?" Bob grumbled under his breath, shuffling to the other side of the shelf.

He lay flat on the floor, cheek pressed to the cold concrete, and peered into the darkness. But the ball bearing was gone.

Backstory: The Ball Bearing That Never Stops

Here’s the thing about this particular ball bearing: It never really stops moving.

From the moment it rolled out of Bob’s hand, it became part of the store’s strange ecosystem—always in motion, but never in a hurry. It didn’t roll fast unless it needed to, conserving energy like a mischievous cat waiting to pounce. Most of the time, it just lazily meandered across the floors, nudging into corners, squeezing under gaps, and vanishing into cracks nobody knew existed.

And when it did get picked up—and it loved being picked up—something weird always happened. The ball bearing was slick, almost too smooth, like it had its own secret coating. It would wiggle out of fingers, as though alive, and plummet to the ground with a clink!

That was its favorite part: impact.

The moment it hit the ground, tiny sparks would sometimes fly from the concrete, and for reasons beyond comprehension, the ball hated and loved those sparks at the same time. They stung, but they were beautiful. So it learned to escape quickly after each drop, skittering away just fast enough to stay out of sight.

It never rolled in a straight line for long—always zig-zagging, always just a little unpredictable. And whenever you thought you had it, it slipped away, gaining momentum like a rolling trickster. The ball bearing had no destination. It wasn’t going anywhere in particular, but it never seemed lost, either.

In time, it became a sort of unofficial mascot for the backroom—a shiny little ghost that haunted the stock shelves, appearing and disappearing as it pleased. Some nights, when the stockroom was quiet and the lights were off, you could still hear it:

Clink... roll... clink...

It was as if the ball bearing knew more about the building than anyone working there ever would.

Bob didn’t think much about it after that first encounter. He just assumed the ball was gone, lost in the labyrinth of metal shelving. Maybe it had rolled into some forgotten crevice, never to be seen again.

But every now and then, just when Bob started to forget about it, he’d hear a faint tick-tick-tick echoing through the stockroom, like a distant reminder that it was still out there—rolling, waiting, watching.

And no matter what anyone did, it never quite stopped.

The Mysterious Box

The next day started... weird. Not in a handle that opens to an alien outhouse kind of weird, but weird enough that Bob felt uneasy right from the start.

When he arrived at the stockroom, there it was: a box. Neatly taped, labeled with something that looked like language but... wasn’t. The letters were jumbled, the numbers were just dots—three dots for three, five for five. It was both absurdly simple and bafflingly unreadable, like something a particularly sarcastic alien would write if it was impersonating a doctor’s handwriting.

Bob squinted at it. “Great,” he muttered. "Another round of interdimensional bingo."

Years of PPE and safety courses had drilled one truth into Bob’s mind: If a box makes no sense, assume it might explode. He scanned for warning symbols—biohazard, radiation, fire—but the symbols on this box didn’t match anything he recognized. One symbol looked a little like a fish, another like an upside-down umbrella. Bob figured, Well, at least it doesn’t scream 'bomb.’

Still, he wasn’t stupid. He left the box exactly where it sat and went to find Trevor.

Consulting the Boss

Trevor was at his desk when Bob knocked, leaned inside, and saw him doing... something on his computer. Hopefully not another hours-long rabbit hole of YouTube videos about competitive marble racing. Bob knew better than to interrupt unless it was serious. And Bob wasn’t bored. Not yet, anyway.

Trevor glanced up from his screen and gave Bob a flat look. “Okay, what fresh hell have you brought me today?”

Bob crossed his arms. “Oh, great. Now you're clairvoyant, huh? Anyway, there’s a box on the shelf. And normally, yeah, I’d just open it. But—”

Trevor raised a hand, already reciting from memory. “What’s the first thing I teach you when it comes to boxes?”

Bob smirked. “Always check the paperwork. Make sure everything matches. Second rule: read what’s on the box, verify it with the paperwork. And third: never open a box unless you know what’s inside—or unless I say it’s okay.”

“Exactly.” Trevor stretched, cracking his neck. “So... let’s go look at this box of yours.”

Opening the Box

Two minutes later, they were both standing in front of the mysterious package. Trevor gave it a once-over, nodded, and picked it up. “Alright, let’s open this thing.”

He placed the box on Bob’s desk, pulled out his trusty box cutter, and sliced through the tape in one clean motion. The cardboard flaps popped open with a quiet sigh. Trevor peered inside, nodded again, and said, “You’re good,” before turning on his heel and walking away.

Bob blinked. “Wait... that’s it?”

Trevor called over his shoulder. “Yep! No explosions. No weird symbols trying to summon demons. Just... a box with ( a chocolate bar , 5 snap bracelets , and a thank you from the shipper card(i think). Have fun with it.”

And with that, Trevor was gone, disappearing back to his office without so much as a second glance.

Trevor’s New... Attitude

Over the past few days, Bob had noticed a shift in Trevor’s behavior—like the boss was still wrapping his head around the bizarre events surrounding that strange handle-turned-portal. Trevor was quieter, more reflective, like a man carrying the weight of an existential puzzle he wasn’t ready to solve.

But there was also something else: Trevor had been... nice.

Almost too nice.

Need a new work shirt? Done. Want to take an extra-long bathroom break? No problem. Trevor didn’t just approve requests—he actively encouraged them. It was as if having an alien toilet experience had unlocked some hidden empathy module in his brain.

Bob wasn’t complaining. It was kind of refreshing to be treated like more than just a cog in the machine, even if Trevor’s sudden kindness felt a little... off. Like a dog that was too well-behaved because it knew it was about to puke on the carpet.

Still, Bob figured, Hey, if he’s in a good mood, I’ll roll with it. Life was easier this way—better shirts, fewer hassles, and the occasional moment where Bob felt, dare he say it, appreciated.

And if Trevor’s newfound benevolence was a side effect of alien outhouse trauma? Well, that was just fine by Bob.

For now.

Bob eyed the "Go Stuff Yourself" chocolate bar uneasily. Trevor leaned on the desk, arms folded.

"You ever hear of this brand?" Bob asked.

Trevor shook his head. "Nope. And I’m not eating something we can’t verify. You know the policy—if it’s not in the system, it’s not getting sold or consumed."

Bob nodded, relieved Trevor was on the same page. "Yeah, you’re right." Without hesitation, he tossed the chocolate bar into the garbage. "No way I’m risking food poisoning over some mystery candy."

Trevor watched it land in the trash. "That’s the smartest thing you’ve done all day."

"Tell that to the snap bracelets," Bob muttered, rubbing his temples. "We gotta figure those out before someone else tries them."

Sorting the Snap Bracelets

Bob picked up the Canadian bracelet from the desk and studied it with suspicion. “Weirdest thing… I put this on earlier, and next thing I know, I’m talking like a backwoods Canuck.”

Trevor snorted. “You always sound weird.”

Bob ignored him. "I'm serious. I tried another one, the pirate one—it was the same deal. Changed the way I talked."

Trevor raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “That’s… a little nuts, don’t you think?”

"Try it if you don't believe me," Bob said, holding up the Jamaican one.

Trevor took a step back, holding up both hands. "Nope. I saw what happened to you. No way I’m putting one of those things on."

“Smart.” Bob tossed the bracelets back into the box. “The last thing we need is someone messing around with these and accidentally getting stuck talking like a pirate or something.”

Trevor leaned against the desk, nodding thoughtfully. "We just file it with the weird stuff and move on."

Bob frowned. "Yeah, but... what if these are something important? Do we just ship them up the chain?"

Trevor shrugged. “It’s above our pay grade. We send it, we log it, and it becomes someone else’s problem.”

The Thank You Card Incident

Bob turned his attention to the thank-you card still pinned awkwardly to the edge of his corkboard. The strange weight of the thin paper gnawed at the back of his mind.

"That card…" Bob muttered. "It’s heavier than it should be. And I tried cutting it, but nothing worked."

Trevor gave it a curious glance but stayed put. "It’s just paper, right?"

"That’s what I thought." Bob leaned in, pried the card from where it was jammed into the corkboard, and tossed it onto his desk. It landed with a dull thunk—way too heavy for something so thin.

“Maybe it’s got metal inside?” Trevor suggested.

"Maybe," Bob muttered, though he wasn’t convinced. "I’ll log it with the rest. The box is getting weirder by the second."

The Compactor Confusion

The two of them resealed the bracelets and card inside the original box, carefully keeping the chocolate bar in the trash. After labeling everything, Bob tossed the box onto the outgoing shelf and dusted off his hands.

"Done and dusted," he said with a sense of finality.

Trevor smirked. "Bet corporate sends it back anyway. They love doing that."

Bob groaned. "I swear, if it comes back labeled ‘unprocessed inventory,’ I’m quitting."

The two of them shared a chuckle, but the relief was short-lived.

The Call from Corporate

The next day, Bob’s desk phone rang. It was his manager’s manager—one of those guys who only called when something went terribly wrong.

“Bob, you mind telling me why the compactor’s turning everything into bricks that weigh ten times more than usual?”

Bob blinked. “Uh... What?”

“You heard me. We had to bring in three dump trucks this morning because the compactor overpacked. They couldn’t even lift the thing without a crane.”

Bob felt his stomach drop. “But we didn’t change anything... just regular boxes, same as always.”

The manager sighed loudly on the other end of the line. "Whatever you did, stop doing it. Now we’re getting fined for overloading the trucks, and nobody knows how your machine compacted everything so tight."

Trevor, standing nearby, gave Bob a confused look as he overheard the conversation. "What’s going on?"

Bob covered the receiver with his hand. “Apparently, the compactor’s... overperforming.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Overperforming?”

"Yeah. They're saying it made bricks so dense, they needed a crane to move them."

Trevor whistled low. “Well, at least it’s efficient?”

Corporate Interest

By the afternoon, things had escalated. Bob’s manager stopped by in person, looking frazzled. "Listen," he said, "the machine manufacturer heard about this... and now they want to buy the compactor from us. They’re offering a brand-new one as a replacement."

Trevor leaned in, curious. "Why do they care so much?"

The manager rubbed the back of his neck. "Apparently, they’ve never seen a compactor perform like this before. They want to take it apart, figure out how it’s doing what it’s doing."

Bob crossed his arms. “And corporate’s just going to let them have it?”

The manager gave a tight-lipped smile. “For the right price? Yeah. They’re throwing in free maintenance for a year and fleet upgrades, too.”

Bob and Trevor exchanged glances.

"Well," Trevor said with a shrug, "at least we won’t have to deal with it anymore."

Bob nodded slowly. "Yeah. But... what if it’s not the machine?"

Trevor’s grin faltered. "What do you mean?"

Bob stared at the outgoing box sitting on the shelf, his gut telling him this was far from over. "I mean, what if it was something inside the box we processed?"

Trevor followed his gaze to the sealed box, his expression darkening. “You think that’s what caused it?”

Bob shrugged. “I don’t know... but I’m starting to think we just sold our first magical artifact without even realizing it.”

A Quiet Resolution

Later that afternoon, the replacement compactor arrived. The old one was hauled away without a word, and Bob watched from the loading dock as the truck carrying it disappeared down the road.

“You think that’s the last of it?” Trevor asked, standing beside him.

Bob shook his head slowly. “Probably not. But at least it’s someone else’s problem now.”

Trevor clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Let’s hope whatever’s in that box doesn’t come back to haunt us.”

Bob snorted. “Knowing our luck? It probably will.”

The two of them headed back inside, grateful for the temporary reprieve—and determined not to open any more strange boxes, at least for a while.