LARGE TEENS

▌ INCIDENT REPORT · WALGREENS CR-7G · AISLE 3 ▐

When one opens the modern world index, one is told: Try gas stations, ATMs. What follows is an account circumambulating the vein of modern American security as romanticized by Large Teens.

Deep in the board rooms of a large box office sitting in the oil-rich wastelands of the American south, lay four turds dreaming of beefsteak. A pie was sliced.

"Sir Reade, how would you like your pie sliced?"
"Nice."
"And you, Sir?"
"I'm more of a Walgreens guy myself."

Meanwhile, in a local branch of the northeastern United States — southeastern corner of Crown Heights — there is an aisle sporting variations of liquid corn products. There, two rings (Pat and Sam) revel in the reality of non-online products. Some really nice things. Two large T's — one beyond massive and pink saying something about kisses, the other black, business, XXL — added to the cart. Sam holds up a plastic jar of Bordeaux's Butt Paste. Pat is caught up in how hot the woman with a stroller picking out Charmin Ultra is.

"This aisle's the best."
"Too sex to express."

On a green wood bench overlooking a concrete field of courts not far away, one man walks up to another. "Hey baby, have you been to Walgreens lately? It's cool in there and the cashiers got the real good hair."

Sam, looking up after the sinking feeling of not being able to send a text in aisle 3, sees a hooded duo walk in the front door.

"Freeze."
"It's a stick-up."
"Hand over your wallets and get on the ground."

Everyone gets robbed. Half an hour, no cops. Pat and Sam start the trek home. Unbeknownst to the team, they pass one of the cashiers in a large white Ford van frantically counting cash, performing a mental exercise — "I know to wait until they're gone. Insurance fraud is wrong… I guess." — before slamming the wad down and laughing as he pulls out of the driveway to buy gas.