Produce, says The Turtle, looking through the porthole window over my shoulder. Basic produce.
Yep, I say.
Your boss made another mistake, she says. He ordered in too much again. He says to tell you that he’s basically very sorry, but that he wants you to get all that produce out onto the shop floor by the end of the day, or else you’re fired.
Right, I say.
Now get to work, she says. Get to work or I will whip the living shit out of you.