Pizza Wars: Happy Face Pizza

I like posting rough drafts for some reason

“Do you even have the slightest beginning of an idea where you are going?”

“Why do you insist on asking questions you know you don’t want to know the answer to?”

The rear window shattered as the Honda did its best to make the sharp turn ahead. Michael and Jonas were not exactly happy at this moment and were wondering why they took the job in the first place. A second shot rang out from the following car hitting the rear-view mirror and knocking it onto Jonas’s lap.

“OK, that was cool.” he said, joint dangling from his lips as he loaded the shotgun he brought with them. “Slow down a little bit.”

“You are not firing that in my car! Get the fucking nine or something.”

“What is the difference?”

“The fucking shot is going to ruin my fucking backseat so use the fucking pistol or get the fuck out.”

“Fine” Jonas said while simultaneously unleashing both barrels of the shotgun. While the backseat did get horribly ruined, so did the driver of the following car. Now Jonas was happy, but Michael was far from that state as the Honda came to a screeching stop. The driverless following car rushed past them out of control and slammed into a nearby trash dumpster.

“What the fuck?” It was the most Michael’s rage would allow him to get out at the moment.

“It worked.”

“So would the pistol. You ruined my car….again!”

“We really need to find this damn address already. The pizza’s getting cold.”

“Fine....ASSHOLE, but you are buying me a new backseat. What’s the fucking address again?”

The Honda drove past 35th street and into the safety of their delivery area. The street was pitch dark save for the car’s headlights and the huge yellow smiley face logo on the “Happy Face Pizza” roof sign.

The Pizza wars had gotten silly years ago; now they were deadly. Each delivery area had become a turf and each store a fiefdom. The managers were the generals who waged this war for the honor of each store’s owner. Below the manager were the cooks and the dishwashers. The cooks were the ones who had the most contact with the drivers and each driver had someone who rode “shotgun.” One had to serve as shotgun for two years before they could be a driver and then had to driver five years before they could move up to dishwasher. Very few ever made it that far.

There was only one position that was deadlier than the “shotgun rider” and that was the position of “couponer.” These were the poor souls who had to wander in neighborhoods in the light of day hanging fliers on people’s doors. This was quite possibly the most dangerous job in the world to be honest. “Shotgun Riders” from opposing companies would usually earn extra money taking bounties on other store’s coupons since they were technically employed by the driver and were not paid by the company.

Technically, the “couponer” is more of a group than a single person and the word "group" should be replaced with "street gang." The company would hire one couponer, but it was expected for that person to then hire a crew and pay them out of his earnings. There is always safety in numbers and the average couponer crew would consist of six to ten people: most days only six would return.

The average Pizza store really only employed ten people. Those ten would then hire people who worked for them and not the company. The owners both loved and hated this aspect of the business. They did not have to pay as many people which they liked, but it also meant that the loyalty of those people are to their employers and not the store. They also did not like the fact that it was common practice for drivers from opposing store to “hang out” together when not on the clock. They were usually friends and many had worked together at other stores before the war began and a few were even still roommates to this day.

The drivers saw nothing weird about being best friends for twelve hours a day and trying to kill each other for the other twelve. The only rule was that no business was ever handled when one of the people involved was off the clock. They were not fighting because they hated one another; they were fighting because it was their jobs and they would never make it personal. They actually enjoyed the concept of a “twelve hour a day war.” It was not uncommon for a funeral to be attended by the person who killed the deceased.