Randal Graves: Master of Denial and Elaborate Excuses

It was one of those slow, painfully dull afternoons at RST Video. The flickering neon sign outside buzzed lazily as the usual parade of half-interested customers shuffled in and out. Randal leaned against the counter, flipping through a worn-out porn magazine, trying to ignore the oppressive boredom that had settled over the store like a choking fog. The silence was finally broken by the familiar chime of the Quick Stop door.

Jay swaggered in, grinning like he’d just scored a joint in a police station. “Yo, Randal! What’s good, man? You look like you just lost your best friend or something.”

Randal gave a bitter chuckle, eyes shadowed with something heavier than just annoyance. “Man, you don’t wanna know, Jay. Y/N... well, they’re gone.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Gone? Like, moved away? Got locked up? Caught a case?”

Randal sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to wrestle the truth from his tongue. “Nah, man. It’s... complicated.” He paused dramatically, then launched into the first of many absurd narratives.