Anton was barely into the third night of his concessions stand gig, but from the tenseness in his shoulders, he was already seconds away from completely flipping out on it. He was the fucking Crown Prince of Sweden ( !! ) , he thought. Selling candy to spoiled toddlers and popping popcorn for sleazy men to shove their dicks in was far beneath him. As he was about to slip out back to hit up another joint ( his second one in three hours -- he was that stressed ), he caught glimpse of a person's silhouette nearing the counter. With a heavy sigh, he tried to keep his voice in an even monotone. The unauthorized break would have to wait. “What can I get you?”







