I actually do work with a guy named Kenny and used to work with someone named Craig. They're both pretty cool.
And those were just result of "put names out of a hat" sort of deal. Nice cowinky-dink there.
And for the record, most of my managers are pretty cool. Even the one that blew smoke into the costume is usually alright; this is just one instance where he was being a douchebag. Just wanted to clear that up. 
Which is why I named him something rather generic like McCarthy (one of the names on my Kindle's "word prediction" thingy). And I just assumed there were actual people like that, lording power over people. Then again, Memoirs doesn't exactly mesh with the real world, for obvious reasons, and more like a former coworker of mine who like to
act like the boss.
I just need one to be a douchebag for . . . for reasons later on in the book, not that (at the time of writing this) he ever appears.
And, then again, you did say "most".
Also, the last few paragraphs were great. Very short, but I really liked the tiny bit of characterization there.
Yeah, I liked the LH/GH interaction there. He does adore you, you know.
New chapter. And, yes, I'm aware I'm milking this GH-armadillo mascot thing. Don't worry, this is the last time. . . . Maybe. . . .
CHAPTER THREE:
The Stranger
GH grudgingly put on the bodysuit of the mascot, knowing just how hot he was going to be within fifteen minutes. True, he was going to be allowed fifteen minutes break every hour, and he will not be outside, which with how chilly it was -- chilly due to the heavy rains the day previous. This was not a service to GH, as it was presented to be.
He pulled on the reddish-brown, v-necked, character-accurate cowboy boots, trying to avoid knocking things over with the tail attatched to the bodysuit. He, again, wondered why he had agreed to this. Wondered why he allowed himself to be talked into this mess once again. After the Pyronite DNAlien business, he swore not to do this again. And yet . . . here he was. Putting this godforsaken thing on again. He probably wouldn't have if they didn't dangle that friggin' metaphorical carrot in front of his nose.
Then he pulled on the reddish-brown, long-cuffed, character-accurate cowboy gloves. He didn't even like kids too much. They were snotty, smelly, and bratty. They were all little, self-entitled pricks and their parents were no better. He never had to endure it, but he knew that these monstrous little bastards would not think twice about punchjng him in the gut or nuts as hard as they could. And he was basically signing up for that for a four-hour shift. Why was he doing this again? Why? Why?
Then he Velcro'd the dull red faux "bandana" as he considered the real reason why he was doing this. Leatherhead. His beloved LH. To get him a guitar of his very own. He may not have been his son by blood, but as far as GH was concerned, Leatherhead
was his son. Nothing would ever change that. Nothing. Yet, GH still knew that he would suffer during this shift. But LH . . .
Do it for him, GH, he told himself.
Survive and endure . . . do it for HIM . . .Then, with resigned dignity, he took the massive mascot head -- complete with a ten-gallon cowboy hat as part of the head itself. Once on, he would look like a rather mediocre-to-high quality three-dimentional simulation of the character, but his vision was kind of blocked by the lack of mesh where the nose was, and it took a bit of effort to see through the mesh, in general. It was with some reluctance and trepidation that GH, with the help of a manager (not McCarthy, though, who was conveniently not present), put on the head.
Once complete, once Armadillo Anderson, GH took a deep breath. He did not speak, as he didn't want to. He just wanted to get this over with.
***
It was a fortunately slow night. The presence of the great "Armadillo Anderson" didn't attract the crowds. GH was glad. No punches in the gut. No punches in the nuts. No tugging on his "tail". No whining, bawling toddlers that he had to take pictures with. It was ironic that the mascot suit hid GH's subtle body language that clearly said that this wasn't his idea.
From his vantage point, he could see the bus stop, if he concentrated, looking through the mesh that were the character's open grimace. But he didn't do it much, as he sat on an uncomfortable stool upholstered in cracking black leather. There were only like two occupied tables. GH hoped it stayed that way. He had only to suffer through six or seven pictures all day.
For some reason, the gloomy weather outside made the covered bus stop stand out more in the mesh GH saw through. So, he saw a very strange person disembarking. He looked human, but something GH's unpunched gut told him that he was not. He was fairly tall, rail-thin, with lank, long, brown hair. He had a rigid, yet sunken, sort of face. He had a sharp, beak-like nose and hands with long, bony fingers. He wore a black wide-brimmed hat, long black trench coat, black slacks, a white shirt, and wearing a black bolo tie.
"What the hell -- ?" GH said, suddenly, to himself. His Mark was showing itself
through the mascot glove.
He looked around, and saw the strange man was gone. Gone from the bus stop.
Damn! Damn the limited visibility in this goddamn suit! GH found himself thinking.
Where did that guy --But the shift was suddenly over. How did it go by that fast? Never mind that. He had to get out of this effing suit. That man wasn't human, and clearly was bad news to get his Mark to act in such a way. He need to get to the others.
