Just in case President-elect Trump hasn’t gotten around to making a literal enemies list, the fine Juadases (sp?) over at WorldNetDdaily have created a media hit-list for him. I am emotionally disgusted by this and physically disgusted by the DWP provided by Niuveve:


Charles “Chuck-boy” Abney was a man who labored under precious few delusions about himself. He was a businessman who could qualify that description with the word “legitimateā€ only because the laws hadn’t quite caught up to the reality on the ground. Chuck-boy wasn’t sure what he would do once they did and R(he)x was forced out of business, he wasn’t the type to think that far ahead, but until they did, he was perfectly content to sit on his little wooden stool at his vendor’s cart in the middle of the Great Poplar Mall and brew potions, grind herbs and blend unguents all day for disrespected office administrators, cheated-on spouses and aggrieved neighbors.

There was a lot of discussion on apoxecary message boards and forums about their responsibility, as unregulated grey-market entrepreneurs, to the general public. Lots of Chuck-boy’s contemporaries claimed to run background checks before issuing even a simple wasp-attractant. Chuck-boy had made the personal decision to trust his gut instinct about people which almost unfailingly told him that his customers were more honest and upstanding than he himself was. If someone told him they needed a nettle-in-bum ointment because they wanted to play a harmless prank on a coworker than, sure, okay. Chuck-boy’s interest was in making as much money as quickly as possible before the legislators and their regulations forced him to find a different revenue stream. He trusted everyone else was basically decent enough that everything else would work itself out okay in the end.

Still, he wasn’t prepared for the stringy, schlubby guy with a soul patch and a faded black t-shirt that was unraveling at the cuffs and hem. “Hey, listen here man, you got anything, I don’t know, anything that might like, really stick it to a guy? Like a lot of guys, like really just give it to them good, you know, you understand?” His voice the words came out rapid but hushed, like a trickle of a river burbling around a cluster of stones. “Really, you got some break-their-teeth stuff for me for them?”

Chuck-boy sucked air in through the side of his mouth. “Who’d you say this was for again?”

Them, man. Those dogs downtown. Like, I want to Dante them. Okay, so, I want them to like, eat vomit every day and shit blood and see nothing but screaming faces everywhere they look.”

Chuck-boy exhaled air out of the other side of his mouth. “Son, you’ve got the wrong stand. I don’t have anything like that here.”

“The hell you don’t, the hell you don’t!” The volume of the man’s voice rose but that didn’t make him any more intelligible. “Bad deal. What happened to freedom? This is America you have to serve me, man. The customer’s always right.” The man shoved two fingers just an inch shy of actually touching the bridge of Chuck-boy’s nose, right between his two eyes.

Chuck-boy just sat there in his wooden chair, his eyes narrow and armpits sweating. Two tense moments passed before Chuck-boy pushed the man’s arm away and then, deciding that he would rather give the man a real piece of his mind, grabbed at the sleeve to pull him close. Part of the shirt ripped off and Chuck-boy found himself grasping just a limp piece of cloth.

Absolute fire filled the man’s eyes and then just as quickly they banked down to a smolder. The man turned and walked away, mumbling.

Chuck-boy took four deep breaths and looked around. If any individuals at the mall had noticed the confrontation they had been swallowed up by the larger, incurious crowd. Soon enough he had a new, much more agreeable customer. And then another, and another until the afternoon was mostly passed. The apoxecary business was unregulated. That meant a guy like Chuck-boy could make a lot of money.

That evening, as the crowds streamed out of the mall and the sound of retractable metal-link gates scrolled down, Chuck-boy mixed dried flower petals and three different, brilliant colored liquids and the scrap of shirt into a little copper bowl and held a lighter under the whole thing. Being unregulated also meant he could handle his own problems.




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