A visit to the supermarket

 

My supermarket has a big parking lot.  It is so big that it is half empty most of the time. I like to look at the cars and people as I walk by. The half empty part of the parking lot is not so empty. There is some guy selling stuff out of the back of his station wagon. I have a nose for value. Let us check it out!

It is my old friend, MacDonald. We live in the same community. MacDonald was let go a few years ago from his job on a fake harassment charge. Then, his loving wife had police throw him out of his house. He could not get his job back, even though the witch that set him up got locked up for a bunch of other crimes. His wife would not take him back; she was vacationing in Mexico. So, MacDonald joined our family. Now he takes reparations from the patriarchy by selling stuff from the back of his station wagon. 

There is a camera there, it does not work. The big lights, they work, but the surveillance camera, it does not work. I know the camera feeds into the security room, which is in the south west corner of the building, beside the electrical room. Nobody watches the cameras in real time. There is a recording system, but the newer leadership were not taught how to use it, or they forgot. The security room is unlocked. The current manager says that she/her has too many keys on her/she key chain and likes to just keep the doors open. The smoke detector is taped over in the security room, so you can just walk in there and have a smoke. Put your feet up on the desk. Listen to tunes. Watch the people walk around the store. Around the cashbox. Around the storage door to the pharmacy. You can relax and look at the tip of your smoke, take a sip of Rye, and do some deep pondering. Ah yup. 

Someone has wired an extension cord into the light pole. I know nothing about electricity. MacDonald says that it is reparations. Free electricity for the victim of the slave industry. I am a victim, too, I recharged my phone and we had a good chat while I waited for my order to be delivered.  Heck, it was a beautiful day, and MacDonald was watching some pirated feed from some sports event. MacDonald has one of those undernet betting portals, and people like to come by and register bets. It is his side-hustle to his main hustle. When you side hustle at work, you get carbon credits.

Nobody parks out past the shopping cart corral if they are going to the supermarket. If they want to take advantage of the undocumented bargains from MacDonald, then they drive out to the empty part. The camera does not work there, so I cannot prove what I write. Obviously, this is all made up. It is really some brilliant marketing to have someone sell your company's products out in your parking lot at prices that the diversity finds attractive. Diversity is our Strength!  I had texted ahead to MacDonald to order beef, cheese, and, spuds. I did not use any form of coded language.

The delivery Jefe is a friend of MacDonald; and anyone who is a friend of MacDonald is a friend of mine. So, my order of meats, cheeses, and, spuds, was awaiting me at home. Well, at the safe house on Shaw, anyway. My freezer is full of peas already and the refrigerator has milk and butter. The whet stone for the butcher bloc has been repaired; the travelling knife guy did it; he left his card for more business. 

So, I sat in the sun on a lawn chair, with a cooler of drinks, a cooler of snacks, and, fine conversation with MacDonald and the delivery Jefe. We talked about the weather. We talked about the shape of the clouds. 

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.