Fleas On The Fleece

All the hypnotic sheeple rotated around the supermarket as the muzak seeped into them and turned their bones to jelly. They leaked a small amount of pee into their pants at every step, and that triggered an urge to buy some Frontlode Deodorant.

Their whole life was guided by barriers in the gutters of the bowling lane of life. Tappas hated them. He had come from the Casbah and he listened to The Clash, and he thought that he might be a prophet. He had decided to come in here with high pressure pump action water-pistol full of acid to spray these fuckers into some semblance of awareness. It was not a good plan.

Carne, a newly trained cop, with an itchy trigger finger, was looking for something to break the monotony of his donut-munching everyday. He had stopped by the supermarket to see if he could use that coupon for an extra free sprinkle donut in his pocket that he’d found yesterday.

When Carne saw Tappas he surprised himself with how fast he managed to unholster the weapon. Tappas surprised himself how quickly he spun on his heel and squeezed the trigger of his water-pistol. Carne did not know what he had been sprayed with, and the reaction that came upon swept away most of what one might call Carne’s mental processes, and replaced them with fear and motor responses, which, when coupled with a gun, made for a lot of dead sheep. And a rather leaky Tappas, who, small mercy, died while tripping on his own acid.

The other sheep were mildly disgruntled because their shopping had been interrupted.

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