I am a pharmacist. My pharmacy sits in a precarious spot, far from the casual meander’s eye. As such, I don’t get much business. I thought about moving, but my wife says she could care less about the money it makes, just as long as I can support her codeine addiction. So it stays in the precarious spot down the alleyway, behind the suspect Arby’s, where they make those agitated roast beef sandwiches.
Often, my pharmacy gets robbed. 37 times, to be precise. Most of the time the purloining fuckheads want drugs. In fact, 99.9 percent want drugs. Oxycontin, methamphetamine, adderall, anabolic steroids, barbiturates. The other .1 percent, believe it or not, find solace in the cool comfort of maxi-pads pressed to their faces. Like dandelions. The next morning they are usually too delirious to make much sense, the chlorine having messed up their brains.
I’ve never been a gun guy before, but I was sick of these pinheads and their pointy handguns. So I went out and bought a 357 Magnum. My brother, the sheriff of Concord, told me it was a good one, and I trust my brother. The night of the 38th break-in started out the same as the others. But as the pencil dick pointed his gun, I responded with my own.
I’ll never forget that feeling. Watching the robber freeze up, caught off guard, turn heel and run out. I chased him, you know. And then I shot at him. But I missed, as pharmacists tend to do with guns. They miss. And the fuckers get away. But I think just maybe he’ll tell his friends that the old man at the pharmacy down the road has had enough. That he can’t shoot for shit, but he’ll sure as hell try.