3.a.vii
The bossman
leaned against the pharmacy counter of the Shepley’s department store. His mood was murky, like the bottom of a
lake.
Three ribs.
That shorty
shorts pansy had broken three of his ribs and the freak’s flailing elbow had
severely blackened one of his eyes. To
add insult to injuries, his car had been stolen while he was getting knocked
around inside the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore. Then he had to walk to the hospital. This was not only due to lack of car, but
with the amount of seriously injured Price Killers patrons the paramedics were
hauling off, it would have been a long while before they had room for him. H then had to take a cab to a different
medical facility for a similar reason.
“That’s all?”
the bossman asked when the pharmacist handed a small, white paper bag over the
counter. “There should be a big bottle
of stern painkillers to go along with whatever antibiotic crap they’re making
me take.”
“Nope. None on this prescription,” the pharmacist
said.
“You gotta be
kidding me.”
“No joke.”
“Is there
another order back there for me?”
“Nope. But the back aisle has some pain relievers.”
“What? Advil and Tylenol? I need something hardcore, like Vicodin on
steroids.”
“I wouldn’t
recommend mixing Vicodin with steroids,” the pharmacist said.
The bossman
glared at the pharmacist, grabbed the little baggy of impotent medication, and
stormed off.