Yo; his face is sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy; there’s vomit in his ventilator already, hoarded spaghetti…

On the surface, he’s not calm and is ready to drop anyone who encroaches on his spot in the Costco line. Dylan has been there since 5 pm Wednesday and had a bit of a rough night. 

Turns out, the PPE gear he stole from work isn’t the most comfortable set of pyjamas going. So naturally, he took the mask off and spent the night passed out on a camping chair surrounded by the cough & splutter orchestra of the sickly masses. Social distancing done right. 

To add insult to injury the 2L juice bottle he brought to piss in is now full. Who would’ve thought drinking 8 cans of Woodstock to get to sleep would have some adverse consequences? He briefly leaves his spot to empty his shame. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a line pirate doing a dirty duck and weave into a more advantageous spot. Not on his watch. Someone needs to be the sheriff around here. He speed-waddles towards the man and employs some outer suburban diplomacy, “YOU WANNA FUCKING DIE, CUNT?” 

It’s on – the pair puff their chests out like ice-roosters and dance the sweet samba of staunchery. Spittle is exchanged as the men bark irate nothings at each other. That’s until the first round of police patrols start. Dylan backs down. He’s not going to let anything get in the way of his Facebook resell operation. He heads back to his BCF throne with a final thought, “you’re lucky, dog”.

Costco staff walk down the line with megaphones. Pleading the pulsating crowd for a modicum of decorum. To ensure public safety they will only be letting 1000 people in at a time. Of course, such an announcement would make a normal person ponder the slippery slope of savagery we find ourselves losing traction on but not Dylan. Oh no. He just does the Canning Vale-calculus in his head – way fewer people he’ll have to elbow now. His plan is on track.

Ask any girl who knows Dylan and they’ll tell you it is a mistake letting him come inside. Today is no exception. He boorishly busts through the doors and pushes past anyone who dares dawdle in his way. He is after those sweet 60 packs of toilet paper. 

As he arrives at the aisle he can’t believe his eyes – actual police. He is stopped from grabbing a 2nd pack of TP. He is fuming, “do you even know how much I shit, officer?” The constabulary is getting a fair idea based on what’s coming out of his mouth. Alas, he is denied another pack so he switches up his plan and heads for the hand sanitiser. 

Bodies are colliding, sweat is dripping and all respiratory protections items are just thickly soaked virus sponges by this stage. Not that Dylan gives a shit anymore. He is just focused on that sweet reselling. He’s focused – this could be the first time in his life that he’s achieved what he set out to do. 

Alas, the gods can be petty and cruel and Dylan encounters the line pirate from before and this time he has the last pack of sanitary wipes in his greasy mitts. He has no choice but to get the weak dog in a headlock and teach him some respect. Like a pair of sweaty hogs, the men tussle and Dylan emerges the victor – sanitary wipes in hand. 

His victory is soured however, as Dylan is escorted from the store by police and is forced to leave his trolley of goods behind. Keeping it real went wrong and he won’t be making a single buck on Facebook marketplace today. 

 So close yet so far, mate. 

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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