One way or the other, the poor among the humans were perceptibly disappearing, whether through violent self-immolation, or because of the many diseases coupled with a lack of medical resources, or via various methods of abduction - some hidden, some well-known. Or through a combination of all of the above. And the ones who weren't dying were leaving. Or hiding. Or histrionically losing their minds in public and being killed by the authorities.

Anyway, as a result, certain species in the hybrid community were finding themselves increasingly among the employable classes - for certain posts, even most desirably so.

Nipwilliger was able to land a job as overnight cashier/stockboy/custodian/gas attendant at the Blue Egg Kwiki-Mart out beyond old Rt. 70, north of the city, not far from the main freeway. A twelve-hour nightly gig, from 7 pm to 7 am, Monday through Saturday.

Even with his fundamentally (though refined) trollish heart and ways, or perhaps in spite of such hard-headed, inflammatory proclivities - in spite of all, Nipwilliger thought that he really couldn't believe some of the shit he began to witness during these overnight shifts. No wonder they're dyin'