(’Big Al j’ by LewSethics)

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One Day at the Chemist

I run Tony Baroni’s Drug Store Inc.  Tony Baroni would run it hisself, but he chooses to remain anonymous, like some, you know, guys do, so I run it.

Tony Baroni’s Drug store Inc. is legit, forget about it.  People bring us prescriptions, we got plaques on the wall, what else you gotta know?

I’m waiting by the front door for a delivery, but some goon is banging at the back door.

The banging on the door was steadily growing maniacal so I decided to make my way to the window and see whom was pounding my oaken adit.

There was a Cleveburg Wholesale Drugs delivery truck wasting diesel fuel blocking my driveway with Shotgun the Tree guarding the sliding side door while Microgram Thom bruised his underachieving left hand trying to get my attention.  Moron.

Cleveburg Wholesale Drugs is owned by Louie Ciccioulioli, you know.

Microgram Thom did this every delivery day, and Shotgun the Tree always watched him without reminding him, chuckling to himself  as he glared at passers by, visually threatening slower walkers and loudly cocking his bazooka if anyone tarried anywhere near the goldmine he was guarding. 

I was about to open the door to berate the idiotic Microgram Thom when I noticed  a very old woman slowly making her frail way down the sidewalk, one step at a time, with a slightly battered aluminum walker and dressed for winter as some old folks do all year round; poor souls can’t seem to get warm enough.  She looked down at her feet with each step, and up again when she shifted her walker, a tired smile and ancient eyes, wrinkles in a pattern left by a lifetime of making nice things and then giving them to good people. 

Another little old lady was cruising down the street on her mobile chair, looking everything like Mammy Yokum in Stephen Hawking-land.   

Shotgun the Tree slid the triple titanium door shut halfway, and barked at Microgram Thom: ‘Shakies Dude!  Incoming!’

’Shit, Shakies!’ muttered Microgram Thom, and banged on my door with renewed vigor.

Microgram Thom groaned and gauged the distance to the truck, which by this time was being approached by no less than a score of octogenarian sweeties, codgers, grumps and grannies, all focusing their blurry vision on the Cleveburg Wholesale Drug delivery truck, which had flat screens all over it loudly proclaiming the wonderfulness of this drug or that, all in 3D blinding DigiMaxx, with graphics designed to sell the sizzle, not the sausage, dizziness, heart attack or death.