This new customer was dressed in jeans and a sweat-soaked white shirt. The perspiration ran in rivulets down his face, dripping off his stubbled chin. His breathing was laboured and he clutched his chest.
The sound of approaching sirens and screeching tires roused him from his brief daze. He approached the counter, and Babbingtree noticed that the white shirt under his hand was red with blood.
"Is there a back entrance to this place?"
Babbington gazed at the labyrinth of aisles, searching his memory. "If there is, I've certainly never found it." The customer swore extensively; the police sirens were convening outside the store. "Perhaps a change of identity is in order?" he offered.
The man nodded. A disguise was the only chance he had. He disappeared at a ragged-run among the aisles just as the door was kicked open and the police swarmed in. He didn't have much time before they found him, so he quickly chose -
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