Prescription
The prescription called for murder.
Oh, sorry, no. Amoxicillin. That lovely pinky stuff. Quite different than murder.
Or so maybe they wanted him to think. Maybe they wanted him to chug back a quick sup of the pink stuff, assuming it was penicillin, only to have his insides burn out like a salted down slug. Not a pleasant way to go, let alone in the middle of a diner, where you'd be sure to attract a crowd. And no one in a crowd ever wanted to help the guy lying in a pool of his own melting guts on the floor. This knowledge was a little bit of real world experience on the part of Fred M. Rogers (no relation to the TV star), a little related to the Kitty Genovese case, and a dash of interpolation on his part.
He eyed the bottle warily, and put it down on the counter.
"Umm. Sir? Were you going to drink that?" It was a neighbor in the next booth over.
"Err. No." This guy might have been one of them. Whoever they were. He had a small little mustache that nestled neatly under each of his nostrils. Not that this was a defining characteristic of his would be assailants, but it was interesting. He figured he'd play the direct route. He arched his eyebrows in a manner he hoped would indicate the guy's mustache. "That thing ever get wet in a rainstorm?"
Which just so happened to be the code word this particular gentleman was waiting for. Mustache Guy leapt up on his table, emptied his pockets, and started flinging chinese throwing stars in all directions. After he'd exhausted his supply (50 or so, which explains why he clanked when he came through the door, Fred thought), he dove off the table, shouted something over his shoulder at Fred which sounded like "Get the shoulder bag!" and tumbled out the door after three consecutive somersaults. Fred once saw his two year old niece do the longest consecutive somersault around her house four full times until she landed awkwardly in a door frame and twisted her ankle badly enough that she needed to go to the hospital to have it X-rayed. He thought of that, while the mustache man ran through the streets somewhat haphazardly.
He stood up. "Listen to me. Nobody move. While this isn't quite like a broken glass, no one wants to step on a chinese throwing star. And there are, at my count, 50 or so around the diner. So if everyone could kindly remain in their seats, and one of the waitresses could bring out a mop bucket and mop, we could try and pick up as many as we could."
And this is how Fred spent his Saturday.
disclaimer:
Ohhh, my poor head. Damn those time changers!
So we'll catch up, someday. I believe we have one clock left around the Sane Magazine complex left to change and then we're... ready for the Autumn changover.
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