Category: Fiction/Satire

The blue Mercedes van had been circling the block for ten minutes, it was time to act. I jumped into my battered Taurus and slowly tailed it. It was all out war now, the Battle of the Last Mile. The enemy had to be stopped.

As owner of Chuck’s Choice Meats and Market, I had a corner on the local grocery delivery market. That was until Amazon decided it would be fun to deliver groceries from Whole Foods right to your door. Now Walmart was partnering with some delivery service to have its damn groceries delivered right to your home.

Wilson popped into my office wearing what looked to be a suitcase strapped to his back. His pants were small and tight, and appeared to have been bought in the boys department. An also too tight V-neck tee shirt revealed a tuft of salt-and-pepper chest hair.

“I feel great,” he said. “Really feeling great.”

I nodded and focused on the gray suitcase-like object on his back.

“That a jetpack or something?”

The investment bankers and lawyers threw themselves a big lunch in a nice private dining room at an upscale restaurant. There was lots of toasting and back-slapping, and then Timmy Big Deal rose to speak. Big Deal cleared his throat and tapped the microphone.

“Hey, listen up,” he said. He waited for the room to quiet down. “We got the doors locked, and no one gets dessert until we get a problem solved.”

The cry for help came just before eight on Wednesday night, as I was leaving for the day, or night. Both, I guess.

“Hey,” was all I heard as I passed Wilson’s office.

I stepped inside. The air was thick with desperation. Wilson was at his desk, staring at papers spread out in front of him. He looked pained, like whatever it was he was working on was absolute torture.

The knock on the door came Tuesday morning, a little before seven. I was in my robe, coffee in hand. The kids were getting ready for school, the wife upstairs applying makeup.

I peered out the little window by the door and saw two guys, both late twenties, maybe thirty. Parked at the curb was a Toyota that appeared to have been built during the Clinton administration. Hmmmm.

I left the house in a panic, hopped in the car and sped across town. No way was I going to be left behind. No way was I going to go hungry, left to buy groceries on the black market from some shady food dealer.

If the president said we needed a picture ID to buy groceries, then by God, I was going to see if the supermarkets were handing out special IDs. I wasn’t going to rely on my drivers license, or work ID to eat. It was early, I figured I could beat the crowd, and headed straight for Stop & Shop.