Gemotions

The neon sign of "Sammy's Subs" flickered intermittently, as it always did. A smile crept across the face of George. The thought that Sammy, the sandwich maestro, was finally hanging up his apron had struck him as hilarious.

He imagined the sandwich-making machine, the sheer volume of sandwiches, and the chaos that would unfold in the coming weeks. He could hardly contain his glee.

He approached the counter, humming a little tune. The smell of oregano and salami filled the air. "The usual, Sammy," he said, his voice lighter than air. "And make it a good one."