You take a small sip from your warm pounder of Miller High Life, doing your best to savor the taste. When you’re not sure where your next Champagne of Beers is coming from, you gotta make what you have last. Supply lines have been thin and deliveries inconsistent at best since the Commissar’s latest defeat in the east.
A box truck pulls up and you shuffle up from your perch near the back door of the pharmacy. The agent steps out of the cab wearing a deliveryman’s uniform – a cunning disguise to be sure, but you’re no fool, now are you? You decide quickly that playing it cool is the best course of action. You’ll beat this rogue at his own game.
The agent rolls up the rear door of the box truck and begins loading up a dolly with boxes; he’s committed to his façade, you have to give him that. As he approaches, you snap to attention, clapping the heels of your worn-out house slippers together and forming a hasty salute against the brim of your limited-edition North Des Moines Chili Cookoff ’02 trucker cap.
“Sir! All’s well!” you bark.
The agent stops dead in his tracks a few yards shy of the door. He hadn’t counted on this. He hadn’t counted on you.
He stares at you, obviously trying to formulate a cover story. “Uhh-“ is the best he can come up with. Improvisation is not the agent’s strong suit.
“Nothing to report!” you holler, eyes forward, and drop your salute.
“Okaaay…” the agent replies. He doesn’t suspect a thing, the fool.
The agent approaches and pushes the door buzzer. After a moment, the agent’s contact, predictably disguised in a pharmacist’s jacket and name tag and uniform and identification card lets him in to complete the drop.
The door quietly closes behind the delivery agent. Now’s your chance. You sprint to the box truck and hop in the back. Dozens of boxes fill the back of the truck, marked with strange, clandestine codewords you can’t decipher – Dawn, Crest, Bounty. One codeword catches your eye above the rest: Raid.
Dear god, they’re planning an invasion! You have to warn the Commissar!
An angry voice screams from behind you. “Hey, get out of there!” You turn to see the agent with his hands up in exasperation.
“You’ll never take me alive, fascist! I’ve seen your plans!” you run to the edge of the box truck and deftly miscalculate where the edge is, falling hard to the concrete of the parking lot. You collect yourself quickly and make haste away from the den of evil called CVS.
You hear the agent shout something like “asshole” after you. Probably some sort of kill-phrase to alert others in the area. You’ll have to lay low for a while, as soon as you can find enough quarters to buy another tallboy.