Chris Guidon – Taming of the shrew.

by Horror Sleaze Trash on April 2, 2012

The hottest day of the year, and here I am stood in the queue at the pharmacy, the shirt stuck to my back from the sweat pouring out of me, and the air in here’s as thin as my patience.

The stale digestive smell of old people as they root through plastic Sealy bags with shrivelled up dried fruit in and sit and suck on these horrible dehydrated segments of orange or banana with faces like warm scrotums until their prescriptions are ready. God only knows what ailments they’re treating. Probably all of them. Desperately popping pills and applying lotions to stave off death, desperately trying to cling to a cruel ruthless life that’s just as desperate to shake them off.

This heat is fucking killing me; it’s actually taking my life. Don’t they have air-conditioning in this crappy little place? I bet the guy whose making the decisions about whether or not to install air-conditioning in this desolate sweat-box is sat in some walnut-lined, air-conditioned penthouse office, sipping fine whisky with mineral water ice cubes, served by his stunning leggy secretary right now. I bet this metaphor for disenfranchisement is the last thing on his fucking mind. He’s got more important things on his mind; like which hotel he’s gonna take the leggy secretary to for golden showers and light bongage tonight, or whether he should get the golf clubs with the genuine snake skin grips or the red-latex-sport-grip! one’s. Meanwhile I’m slowly melting into the linoleum chess-board floor tiles of this horrible little placebo emporium, just to get a few antibiotics to tame the swelling in my diseased balls…..


I look up and there’s no one between me and the counter. I step forward and hand the sour faced chemist woman my prescription. She knows what it’s for; I can see the disgust in the corners of her gossips mouth. It was her I lost my temper with last time I was in here, after she told me to come back in twenty minutes, and when I came back thirty minutes later they still weren’t ready.

“How can it take more than half an hour for you people to put a box of malaria tablets in a bag and put the little sticker with my name on it over the top?”

She asked me to calm down and to “please be patient Sir”.

The word “Siiir” dripping from her lips like vomit. I could see that she still recognised me when I walked in. I bet she was loving this. She literally had me by the balls. I knew she was going to take her time so when she said twenty minutes I went straight over the road to the pub. I wouldn’t be able to drink much for the next fortnight so that the antibiotics would work properly, and I had to get this cleared up before the wedding night.

When I returned an hour or two later her face (though I wouldn’t of thought this possible if I hadn’t seen it myself) looked even sourer. She could smell the booze on me.

`You do know you can’t drink on antibiotics Mr. Guidon?’

Her rhetorical tone made me want to snatch the pills from her hands and shove the lot down her tortoises’ neck.

`Yes, I know’

`..because if you do, they won’t work’

I didn’t know whether she was talking about the antibiotics or my balls, probably the latter. She was wearing her all knowing eyes; her look that told you –

“I’m on to you, you dirty little bastard” she took them out of their well worn case every time I returned from a holiday in the orient and had come here to collect prescriptions from the sexual health clinic. She fucking loved it. I bet she got butterflies every time I came in for malaria tablets, knowing that just over a month later id be back; disease ridden tale between my legs –looking for redemption for my sins. But I never gave her the satisfaction of seeing me look discomforted or even grateful.

I told her the first line of my address, took the bag, offered no word of thanks, turned and began walking to the door. As I reached forward for the handle the piped in classical music finished and I heard her.

`That’s him the sex case who goes off to Thailand…’

She was speaking under her breath to the other woman behind the counter, but she fell silent when she realized I’d heard what she’d said. I stopped dead. Turned round, and as Beethoven’s 5th began wafting from the wall mounted Warfdale speakers I stood and watched her face become a warm shade of magenta. She was trying her best to give me her insolent scowl, but the blushing gave her away, that, and the beads of sweat rolling down from her grey rooted birds nest perm. She knew I had a temper; knew I was the type to lash out with my tongue, and now she was trying to brace herself for both barrels right between the eyes. I could see a slight grin cracking the corner of her colleague’s mouth. I bet she’d waited years to watch this poisonous little gossip cut down to size. “Well, not today” I thought.

I slowly and deliberately smiled, turned around and carried on through the door, the little antiquated shop bell ringing to the tune of my nonchalance as I half skipped out into the high street. I couldn’t wipe that grin from my face all the way down to the friendly Italian tailor’s air-conditioned shop at the other end of the street.

My lies are hard to hide I thought; but hers are a full time occupation.

I was nearly looking forward to the big day now.

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