Pop Gun In Pop Truck
In the dry county, I got a target on me. The mountain lion has a bone to pick with the bone in round steak that is in my luggage. The local government put all this pressure on me, these plastic crates keep me company during these trying times. The local people are cranky while they wait for me to do my job, it’s like coffee doesn’t exist. The case of the cotton mouth is halting society from making proper decisions like locking up the creepy crypt keeper, he says he served in war but he might mean the wrong side of the war on drugs. Tending to the village, one pallet at a time and this dolly cart might be the end of me. The left wheel is begging for mercy, on its last leg. Besides death, a fucked up dolly cart might as well be as close to a season ending injury for this industry. A popped tire and car troubles could be fixed on company’s dime but I wanna see you try to replace the wheel of a dolly cart. Its like the factory puts out many wheels for the hardware to supply but the wheels that comes with the dolly is like one of one custom crocodile formal footwear. I almost had to take this guy to the back of the store and loop his tie to the foot of one of those old vending machines, those ones that cost ten cents a pop unless you were a colored person. The sucker tried to sell me wheels that were too big for my dolly, can never trust a worker who wears a tie at a hardware store. Carrying in crates of what keeps the economy going in this village with only three wheels, that’s one wheel too late. Someone is going to get you while you hauling with two hands instead of the usual one hand with eyes towards the store. The dry county must have something unholy up their sleeve that they pig out on, it’s a spectacle when the metallic coloring from the truck shines on to the windows of the onlookers. A pre-labeled bounty on my head like i’m hauling around a brinks truck, no one cares who’s in there because it’s about what’s in there. My company don’t care about me, send me out there and hope that there is no scratch on the metallic. They gave me a six shooter pop gun with a box of ammo and a cork pop rifle with only one cork, at least they had to generacity to give it the same metallic color. I’m sure swords were in the bible, give me a fencing sword for fucks sake. It would make more sense if I were hauling big name products but i’m not on that spectrum, we’re hauling brands that this small town only knows. Brands that follow the footsteps of regional discontinued pop brands, they’ll never expand beyond sponsoring the softball tourney. Hell, some of this stuff might just be expired with a new label on it, the twang taste in the cola that the mainstream sippers are scared of. I don’t even know where they get that cork, it’s supposed to be a dry county. We not making aged pop in barrels like its wine and no one has sent mail through glass bottle in a river in lifetimes. The bums back in my hometown would be all over the aluminum cans that are all over the place, they don’t know what to do with them here. They tried making football helmets for the high school football team with the cans, no one made it through a season with those helmets. The special needs kids got a hold of them now, they like that it has dents in it. Even the store owners in this town are angrily waiting outside for me like a landlord who doesn’t like it when the delivery driver parks in my spot. He thinks it’s some kind of whore that is being given a lesson on finance, the car is usually in and out so I wonder what that says about my skills. Banana pudding and chili on every corner, the devil must be behind constipation. A whole town of must have vinyls of Elvis, the fiber is the prayer and constipation is the devil.