Receipt of Doom

Receipt of Doom

Sam never thought the end of the world would smell like stale air conditioning and overpriced sourdough bread. Yet here he was, standing in the fluorescent-lit battlefield known as his neighborhood grocery store, facing his greatest enemy: the price tag.

The year was 2025. Not the dystopian hellscape of viral outbreaks or zombie hordes. No—this apocalypse arrived subtly, wrapped in biodegradable plastic and labeled “organic.”

Sam’s shopping list was short: eggs, bread, milk, and maybe—maybe—some cheese if his wallet didn’t combust first. But by the time he reached the refrigerated aisle, reality hit him like a poorly aimed reusable shopping bag.

Eggs: $19.99

His jaw tightened. Nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. For a dozen eggs. Not golden eggs. Not rare, dinosaur eggs. Regular, slightly wobbly, maybe-crack-one-on-the-way-home eggs.

Sam picked up the carton with care, as though holding an ancient relic. A sticker on the side read, “Pasture-raised. Cage-free. Emotional Support Certified.” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but for twenty bucks, the eggs better do his taxes too.

Further down the aisle, a man wearing a tattered "World’s Okayest Dad" hoodie was whispering sweet nothings to a bag of almonds priced at $24.50. His eyes screamed financial ruin. His wife walked over, glanced at the price, and promptly fainted. Sam didn’t blame her.

The bread aisle wasn’t any better.

Sam stared at a loaf labeled “Artisan Multigrain – Fortified with Hope”, priced at $11.75. He skipped the gluten-free options entirely; those were priced like collector’s items from an ancient civilization called 2019.

Milk? $8. Cheese? Don’t even ask. Cheese had ascended to “luxury purchase” status months ago. Black market mozzarella was a real thing now.

Sam’s basket contained only three items, yet it already looked like the checkout lane led directly to bankruptcy court.

As he approached the self-checkout machines, a familiar robotic voice greeted him:

“Welcome. Scan your items… and your dignity.”

Sam scanned the eggs. The machine beeped aggressively.

“Would you like to donate an additional $5 to support sustainable farm-grown Wi-Fi?”

He blinked. “What…?”

“For $5 more, these eggs will feel ethically superior.”

Sam declined.

Nearby, a woman argued with another self-checkout kiosk. “This kale looks like it’s been through three wars and a breakup,” she snapped, holding up a limp bunch of greens. “Twelve dollars for this?”

The machine didn’t flinch. It never did.

Overhead, corporate-approved jazz music played, eerily cheerful as customers wrestled with existential dread and skyrocketing grocery prices.

Sam paid, his card wheezing as it processed the transaction. The receipt printed—three feet long, full of fine print disclaimers and loyalty point offers that felt more like sympathy cards.

He walked outside, receipt trailing like a funeral banner behind him.

A digital billboard flashed in the parking lot:

“Good news! Inflation only up 9% this month. We’re practically thriving!”

Below it, a line of weary commuters queued for $15 probiotic sodas promising gut health and emotional stability. Someone sneezed. Three people backed away cautiously, adjusting their overpriced N95 masks—now fashionably branded, of course.

Sam opened his soda, the carbonation hissing like an expensive secret. It tasted vaguely like lime and regret.

He thought back to simpler times when groceries were just overpriced, not mortgage-level expensive. Now? Grocery shopping felt like auditioning for a survival reality show called “Can You Afford to Eat?”

His friend Jamie once joked they were all “coping with cheese.” At first, it was funny. Now, it was basically a survival slogan.

Cheese stockpiles were bartered in online forums. Parents taught children to distinguish between cheddar and counterfeits. Parmesan shavings were treated like currency.

Sam took another sip of his soda and laughed, the sound brittle around the edges. He wasn’t sure if they were surviving or just stretching the definition of “okay.”

But they were still here. Complaining, coping, surviving—one overpriced snack at a time.

And that had to count for something.

The End