Keeping Track

I once had a friend with a good nature and an inventive sense of humor. She drank alcohol at all hours of the day, but her best time to consume "Captain Morgan's" spice came in the morning. Actually, I was never certain when she began to drink in the morning, since she attempted to keep from me her state of intoxication, but she was not always successful; I was able to smell the alcohol on her person. It permeated her.

She was an attractive woman of pleasant shape with brown hair and dark eyes, and there were many males who wanted to know her in the carnal manner, so there were certain privileges granted to her when she interacted with, made demands of, or teased them. Sometimes, of course, she would find herself at the raw end of a fist, but as far as I am aware she was hit rarely.

She was yet clever in her drunkenness, and she had realized, perhaps early, that she was able to say and do things that would bring her to the brink of an altercation with a male, but remain just distant enough. Some of these men were dangerous when she talked to them.

One case in point is an encounter she had with someone in a drug store. She found herself in one of the aisles where the analgesics displayed themselves for taking in the grand, impressive white and colorful demand of the acceptable drug offerings. She noted immediately that he was dressed in green and brown, with the splotches of tan, beige, cream, sepia and olive branch spread all around his form. He may have been armed, but the law at that time expected that he had no weapon on him. He engrossed himself in the analysis of the analgesic of his choice, perhaps in order to ensure that the deep state had not poisoned it, specifically to punish him for his efforts at keeping America safe with his AK-47 and his Glock. He and persons such as him were and are, naturally, targets of large corporations as well as the conspiracy of disagreement found in institutions such as the FBI and the Department of State. There is little doubt that this person became a part of the orange nightmare in which we all now find ourselves.

At any rate, there he stood in the midst of the mostly-white store of drugs in his tight-wrapped boots and in a same-khakied hat that covered his balding head, moving thick glasses up and down his face. My friend became a bit playful, I think, because she decided to approach him. She walked slowly, but with a certain gait, from the back of the store toward its entrance, just barely not far enough away to avoid her shoulder bumping into him as he considered the poison. Her shoulder struck his, really grazed it, and both of their frames jilted back a bit.

"Oh, excuse me," my friend said, a bit drunkenly. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you with all of that...color on. You blended into the background."

The man said not one word, simply glaring at her for some moments, but there was, I suspect, some time when he wondered if the deep state had sent her to visit him, distracting him from his analysis of the possible poison in his painkiller. He was, and no doubt is, one of the most important of all males in the United States, and our government must keep track of him.