I posted a short story on Sam Walton’s myspace the other day — generously maintained by Brandon — and I thought I’d repost it here for your enjoyment.

Like seemingly every new horror movie coming out this year, the following is only loosely based on a “true story” and in no way should indicate that I maintain a friendship with Sam Walton.

“An Afternoon With Mister Sam”

I once spent an afternoon with Sam Walton, and with his help I was able to get through one of the toughest times of my life. I’d like to share my story with the rest of the world, to show just how much of a family Wal-Mart really is.

One day I was working in the photolab, and Mr. Sam Walton himself happened to be visiting my store. For some reason he noticed me, probably because I was sobbing like a four-year old girl with a skinned knee. Instead of yelling at me like my manager had been doing all day, he took me aside into an empty office and asked what was wrong. I explained that the other night I had caught my girlfriend in the laundry room going down on her Filipino housekeeper, I had become distraught, and that we’d broken up a short while later. Mr. Sam realized how miserable I was and, being the kind-hearted soul that he is, said that we were going to leave work early and have some fun the Wal-Mart way!

One hour later we rolled into the parking lot of Diamond’s Adult Entertainment in his vintage Ford Model-T. I’d suggested we go to the Living Room, but he looked me right in the eye and said, “Now look here, son. If we are gonna get your mind offa this harlot ex-ladyfriend of yours, your basic tittie bar just ain’t gonna do. This calls for some up-close-and-personal pussy!” What could I do but agree? Topless and bottomless girls it was!

We spent a good amount of time in Diamond’s. In his plaid, button-up shirt Mr. Sam had a roll of fifties stashed so we had ourselves a merry ol’ time. Eventually he suggested I get a lap dance. I selected a pretty girl named Destiny and he chose Cheshire, an exotic, chocolate-skinned beauty. (“I like ‘em dark,” Mr. Sam simply said.) It was very soon that I learned just how much he values his employees.

There we were — upstairs, having the time of our lives. Cheshire was grinding herself against Mr. Sam’s crotch, his Wal-Mart trucker hat perched sexily atop her head. Destiny was rubbing her breasts against my face while Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” played on the overhead sound system.

And that’s when things went south.

Even though I was having a fantastic day, courtesy of Mr. Sam, my mind still kept returning to my ex-girlfriend. I kept remembering all the fun times we used to have — playing video games, walking in the park, holding hands at the ice cream shop, and the kinky, violent sex. Suddenly, in the private dancing room of Diamond’s, I got a wee bit overzealous. I began to run my hands all over Destiny’s supple body, having myself an even finer time but lamentably violating the “no touching” rule. The exotic dancer slapped my hands away and jumped up.

“Hans!” Destiny shouted. “We got another fuckin’ perv in here!”

“Oh, son of a gun….” I heard Mr. Sam mutter.

The satin curtain separating our little private heaven from the rest of the world was roughly thrown aside, and a hulking gentlemen in a tuxedo stepped in.

“No touch,” Hans politely informed me before wrapping his hands around my neck.

The room quickly began to grow dark and I knew I was at the end of my rope. Then out of nowhere, Han’s grip on my neck loosened and I heard the girls screaming.

I blinked open my eyes and saw Hans lying on the floor, his hands at his neck and a pool of blood next to him rapidly growing in size. Mr. Sam was standing over him, using the bouncer’s coat jacket to clean off a switchblade.

Mr. Sam looked at me, his cheeks rosy red. “We better get outta here, son, and quick, ‘fore the cops get here.” He turned to the still-screaming Cheshire, snatched his hat off her head, tipped it to her graciously. And ever the enterprising businessman, he rapidly shouted, “Shop-at-Wal-Mart-always-low-prices!” over his shoulder as we stole out the exit.

“Where’d you get that knife from, Mr. Sam?” I asked as we burst through the club’s front door and out into the cool evening.

“Always carry a blade on you, son, ‘specially when you’re in a whorehouse. Learned that in Dubya-Dubya-Two,” he said proudly. “I was in some shithole tavern on shore leave in the Pacific. Crazy Japanese sucky-sucky girl was trying to bite my you-know-what off. I had to stab her ten times before she finally rolled over and died. Craziest shit I ever seen.”

By now, we were safely ensconced in his Model T on our way back to my store, with no sign of law enforcement pursuit.

“I’m sorry about what happened back there, Mr. Sam,” I said. “I guess I messed up pretty bad.”

Mr. Sam waved off my apologies. “Don’t worry about it, son. We all make mistakes. And remember Wal-Mart Wisdom Number twenty-eight: “Even if a customer is a pain in the rear, forgive ‘em, ’cause we’re all irate customers at one point or another.” He smiled. “Yessir, the mark of a true humanitarian is forgiveness.”

“Even for murder?”

“Even for murder.”

We both laughed, though a solitary tear rolled down my cheek, because I knew right then that not only did Mr. Sam have an employee for life, he had two emotionally-damaged, exotic dancing customers for life too.

~fin~