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The mid-February air in Springfield, Oregon, is a heavy, damp shroud that smells of wet asphalt and rotting cedar. A relentless Pacific Northwest drizzle slicks the cracked pavement of the Kwik-E-Mart parking lot, turning the neon "Open 24 Hours" sign into a blurred, pulsing halo of artificial magenta. Inside the store, the hum of the Slurpee machine provides a low-frequency vibration that rattles the stale hot dogs on their infinite rollers. Snake Jailbird, thirty-one years old and wearing the weary expression of a man whose life peaked during a dig that never was, kicks the glass door open. The bell jingles with a familiar, mocking cheer.
His leather jacket is cracked at the elbows, and his denim vest smells of cheap cigarettes and the dampness of his studio apartment. In his hand, the cold weight of his .45 feels less like a weapon and more like a heavy prop in a play he’s been performing for exactly a decade. Ever since Moe Szyslak had "accidentally" incinerated Snake’s Mayan archaeology credentials in a drunken bar fire ten years ago, this—the 15th of every other month—has been his only reliable source of income. He approaches the counter with a practiced, slouching gait, the tattoo on his bicep flexing as he levels the gun.
"Yo, Apu," he says, his voice a gravelly drawl that betrays his exhaustion. "You know the drill. Empty the drawer, don't make it a thing, and maybe I won't have to hear your kids screaming in the back."
Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, now fifty-nine and feeling every second of it, doesn't even flinch. His skin looks sallow under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the deep creases around his eyes speak of a man who hasn't slept a complete REM cycle since the octuplets hit their "terrible twos." He has just returned from a mandatory "spiritual retreat" across the Canadian border—a trip that clearly did not involve much resting.
Apu has already cleared the register; the plastic drawer sits empty and gaping like a toothless mouth. Instead of reaching for a hidden alarm or a bundle of cash, Apu leans his elbows on the laminate countertop, his hands clasped beneath his chin. He looks Snake directly in the eye, ignoring the barrel of the gun.
"Before we proceed with our regularly scheduled felony, Mr. Snake," Apu says, his voice thick with a strange, existential fatigue, "I must ask you a question that has been weighing on my soul. What religion do you practice?"
Snake blinks. The gun wavers for a fraction of a second. This isn't the script. Usually, there’s a plea, a small stack of bills, and a quick exit into the rainy night. He shifts his weight, his worn combat boots squeaking on the linoleum. "Nihilism, man," Snake mutters, his gaze flickering to a display of expired Hostess fruit pies. "I believe in nothing. Life’s just a series of random bummers until you hit the big dirt nap."
The silence that follows is profound. They stare at each other—the archaeologist turned thief and the PhD-holding clerk—while the rain drums a frantic rhythm on the flat roof above. Slowly, with a heavy sigh that seems to deflate his entire chest, Snake lowers the gun. The hammer clicks back into place with a metallic finality. He rests the weapon on the counter next to a jar of penny whistles.
"Why do you even care, Apu?" Snake asks, the edge gone from his voice. "You look like you just went twelve rounds with a wood chipper."
Apu slumps forward, his forehead nearly touching the plexiglass shield. "Ohh, save me from the 'righteous'! I was on a spiritual excursion with that insufferable Mr. Ned Flanders. I thought a trip across the border would bring clarity, but instead it turned into a four-day seminar on his particular brand of suffocating piety. He spent the entire duration insulting my deities, pinching me whenever I tried to meditate, and he... oh, the ignominy! He pointed at a statue of Lord Vishnu and called him 'Hawkman'!"
Apu lets out a long, theatrical groan of despair. "He told me my gods were 'comic book characters with too many arms.' The man has the soul of a lukewarm glass of milk!"
Snake’s expression softens. He thinks of his sixteen-year-old son, Jeremy, who is currently failing history because he spends too much time reading about the very civilizations Snake once studied. He thinks of the intricate carvings he once brushed dust from in the Yucatàn. "Hmm..." Snake says, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’s cold, man. Shiva should probably smite him. You know, do the whole 'Destroyer of Worlds' thing in his rumpus room."
Apu’s head snaps up. His dark eyes widen, sparkling with a sudden, desperate hope. "You... you recognize the deities of Hinduism? You know of the Great Destroyer?"
"I'm learning," Snake says, his voice dropping to a vulnerable register. He looks down at his boots, suddenly embarrassed by the gun sitting between them. "I’ve been reading some of my old textbooks lately. Trying to remember what it felt like before I was just 'The Guy Who Robs the Kwik-E-Mart.' It’s actually pretty deep stuff, man."
Snake reaches out and slides the gun back into his waistband, hiding it beneath his vest. He pushes the empty register drawer back toward Apu. "Keep the cash, man. You’ve had a rough week, and you’ve got eight toddlers probably trying to eat the drywall at home." Snake pauses, hesitating at the door as the cool mist rolls in. "You, uh... you think you could teach me about the others sometime? Like, when you aren't on shift, and I'm not, you know, being a criminal?"
Apu smiles, a genuine, weary curve of the lips that reaches his tired eyes. "I would be honored, Mr. Snake. Perhaps over a non-alcoholic cider. But please—leave the firearm in the glove box."
"Deal," Snake grunts.
He pushes out into the Oregon rain, the bell jingling behind him, leaving Apu alone in the fluorescent glow of the 15th of February.