Bob had been in the middle of measuring out the brick of weed. He had some plastic wrap and a knife and he was carefully dividing out the piles and then tying his little pouches shut with surprising accuracy. He gave pause a moment, something yellow in the brick catching his eye. What the fuck was that?
Plucking it out Bob canted his head, "Bob, Randy's Fill and Chill, 3:45 PM." That was fucking weird. It did say his name though and being that he was half fucking baked it seemed really fucking funny at the time. So funny that Bob actually started laughing before sticking the yellow note to his forehead.
Then the ground started shaking. Bob watched in horror as the shelves dropped their contents. What the fuck? Bob put his hand against a shelf and pushed himself out the fucking door. He didn't want to be the fuck in there when the world was all fucking rumbly.
Then the world didn't just rumble, it fucking turned into a mosh pit. The ground split, and Bob didn't realize until it was too late he'd chosen the wrong door. Reaching up he pulled the post-it from his forehead, crumpling it in his palm as the gas tanks beneath his feet exploded.
Bob landed just inside the no disintegrated doorway of the Not Quick Stop, his legs turned black, a long, deep gash across his middle where a piece of shrapnel had torn right through him.