We need boxes. More boxes. We are desperate. Dale and I scream out of the driveway and hit the Walmart, the Target, the Stop and Shop. They are still watering the outside plants and unlocking the doors, but we are too late. But hark. What store through yonder sunlight breaks? 'Tis the liquor store and that means boxes.
"Can we have some boxes?"
They glance down to see empty hands and scowl. Perhaps if we bought something...Dale and I scan the aisles and find a small bottle of rum. If they won't give us any boxes, we can sit out in the parking lot and get drunk because there will be no use going back to the house without boxes. We've already been to the dump, twice.
"You can take four boxes and that is all," the check out clerk admonishes.
Dale picked up her two. I picked up two, but inside the two was another. I clutched it to my chest and we ran, jumped into the car, revved the engine and burned rubber out of the lot. My heart was pounding and Dale checked the rear view mirror to see if they'd send the coppers after us to get the extra box back.
It was a small one, really. Probably only a misdemeanor.
I wondered if the rum would make it through the day unopened.
Hey, matey -- was that pirate's rum?
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