Atlas walked into the pharmacy, head down, steps hurried. The fluorescent buzz of ancient ballasts lit the towel around most of his lower left arm, held in place by his upper right hand. The drips were visible until they hit the gray carpet, where they disappeared among the STDs, shoe gum, and hooker vomit.
It was 2:37 in the morning, and he needed a gun. But first, painkillers.
He walked up to the pharmacist, whose brown hair, youth, and graduation-fresh Ohio University lab coat told him he’d be fighting an uphill battle. Young brunettes with a doctorate didn’t engage with skeevy meth heads missing four teeth, and they certainly didn’t “accidentally” leave Oxy on the front counter while they came around to pick up the cash he would “accidentally” leave on the floor.
“Hi,” he said. Made it sound friendly. The gray walls undermined his intended vibe.
“Good evening… er, morning, to you, sir. Are you picking up?” Her voice trembled slightly, like she knew all about the fight, the blood, and where Janice was.
“Good evening.” He squinted at the plastic on her left breast pocket, “Can-dice.” He’d never heard it before and pronounced it like it indicated capability for rolling six-sided cubes and not a name. “I had a little accident, and I was hoping to obtain some… assistance from you.” He tried to make a convincing wink.
Much to his surprise, Candice leaned in. “The cameras are on all the time, but if you meet me out back with cash, I can swipe a few Oxys.”
He just stared, certain he’d imagined the exchange. Then he looked around for cops but saw no one other than the cashier behind the front counter, barely awake in his third-shift smock.
“Come on,” Candice said. “I’ve always wanted to be involved in the ‘seedy underworld.’ Growing up in a five-bedroom house doesn’t expose you to any fun at all. I mean, you’re not going to murder me, right?” She laughed out loud, not because she knew his answer, but because she knew hers.
He smiled, lips closed. “Of course not. I just need to kill the pain a little before I—” He paused, considering what to tell a suburbanite whose only exposure to his world was TruTV and third-hand stories. “—before I have to go cap a brother.” Enunciated “-er” because he’d never actually used that line.
She bounced excitedly and clapped her hands. “I can’t wait to tell my mother about this. Give me five minutes.”
Atlas walked back out of the front door, the humid air a welcome relief from the institutional air conditioning. He scurried around the building to the rear pharmacy entrance and pulled out his knife, balancing it between holding hand and bleeding arm.
Candice opened the door slowly. She looked left, looked right, finally spotted Atlas, and walked over. “Twenty,” she said, giggling like she was just an inciting incident in Law & Order.
Atlas showed her the knife. “Zero instead.”
Candice put a frightened look on her face, then, quick as you please, snatched the knife and sliced open his other arm, right through the brachial artery. The blood loss was so fast that he sat down in seconds and started blinking like it would keep him alive.
“That’s for Janice,” Candice said, wiping the handle on his dime-store chinos and walking back into the store for lunch.