Our adventure continues....Read Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV.

That morning, Doyle faced the prospect of a nightmarish day in the sunshine, covering a weekend- long bass fishing tournament for that miserable carnie-town rag the Gibsonton Gazette. His editors sucked cock. They had the white hot fire of genius — that rare intersection of scum and invention — right under their hairy, swollen-red-from-alcohol noses and were wasting him on bullshit. He was jerking off in a state of half stoned anonymity, spewing out clean innocuous copy like it was foam from a piss-warm Schlitz. When he ascended to the throne as the next Bukowski, he'd show those douche bags at the paper. Until then, he'd just have to keep on using strippers, drugs and booze to distract himself from his tedious reality.

To numb himself for that day's pain, Doyle stopped for beer at a dilapidated convenience store off Highway 301. When he walked in he remembered the place, the emaciated girl behind the counter he'd like to throw a shot into, the broken coffee machine, the way the bright reds, greens, and blues of the candy aisle mesmerized him that time he was in there on acid. He grabbed a twelve-pack of Miller High Life from the dirty beer cooler and took his place in line behind a woman with an ass wide enough to accommodate the full A-Z run of the Encyclopedia Britannica. She had two baskets full of groceries — laundry detergent, orange soda, cooking oil, tampons, batteries, Hamburger Helper, a jar of pickles, paper plates, shampoo, notebooks, a copy of the Weekly World News, a loaf of bread, lunch meat, a half gallon of milk, three packs of gum. What the fuck? Who buys this much shit in an East Hillsborough County convenience store? This woman with pink flip-flops strapped to her fat doughy fee turned and smiled at Doyle.

"You only have one thing," she said. "Why don't you go ahead of me?"

She'd like that wouldn't she? That would be her good deed for the day, coming down off her high fucking horse to let someone in front of her in line. She'd be a real Christian martyr. Well, fuck that.

"I'm fine right here," Doyle said.

It took three minutes and twenty-one seconds to ring up and double bag all her shit. Finally, Doyle slapped down his rapidly warming twelve-pack on the counter. The stick figure with breasts behind the counter stood staring past him with a wandering eye he knew he could fuck back into place.

"Can't sell it to you," she said in a slow drawl unique to I-4 trailer parks. He pulled out his license saying he was flattered she thought he looked so young but — read right there — he was 25 headed all too quickly for 26.

"Read the sign," she said pointing at the door but staring at the magazine rack. "No beer sold before ten." The aged Marlboro clock behind her showed fifteen minutes before ten. Doyle needed that beer like Elvis needed bacon.

"Don't you think we could let it slide this once? There's no one here but you and I."

"Register would show I rang up a beer sale before ten, I ain't losing my job for you."

"But you don't have to ring it up. Just take my money, give me the beer and wait till after ten to ring it up. I'd throw in a little something extra for the effort."

"Can't do it."

"Please, I'm in a terrible rush."

"Yeah, a rush to get wasted."

"Nonsense, miss. I'm on my way to work. The beer is for later, maybe you can join me?"

"If the beer is for later why don't you just buy it later?"

He wanted to call her a no-good cooze, but held off.

"I tell you what, you win. I give up. Listen, could I have the key to the men's room, I really have to piss, it must have been all that beer I didn't drink."

"Bathroom's for customers."

"Ah, I see. Well, someone's jockeying for employee of the month. All right, I'll take a Hustler then, maybe someone we know finally made Beaver Hunt."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. I apologize profusely."

"I don't need you in here mouthing off, smart ass."

"No, no you don't. In fact, who does?"

"I got a bat back here, if you want me to crack your head with it, keep it up."

"I'm very sorry."

• • •

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