Beer Run

Every year a country/rock/folk music festival is held in the vicinity of the Dominion. It is held a goodly distance from the actual Dominion, but the Dominion is located distressingly near a gas station. See, the attendees at this festival like booze with their music. Resupply runs are undertaken by many brave and tipsy souls to keep the alcohol flowing without interruption. The gas station, of course, knows this and jacks up the price accordingly.

Fernando's Dominion of Movies has beside it a small alleyway that leads to the parking lot/throughfair out in front of the store, which from there meanders over to the gas station in question. Rather than taking an extra ten to fifteen seconds to utilize the highway, people like to speed through this alley at well-nigh thirty miles an hour and whip around the front corner of the store onto the front lot.

Because Fernando's building is not, in accordance with all the common laws of reality, transparent, sometimes people cruising the alley find surprises waiting around the corner. Small things, like other vehicles, children, and so forth. This forces them to slam on the brakes to avoid a ruinous lawsuit or reckless endangerment charges.

Anyhoo, one day a pickup made this arduous trip. The cap was full-up with unfamiliar young men in sleeveless T-shirts and so there was no room for their fourth...except for in the truck's bed, so that is where this gent sequestered himself, looking out to the rear. The truck came bounding up the alley with that obnoxious roaring that reveals to the world a person who had put more money into his vehicle than his education and rounded the bend.

Oh, look, parked cars. Man, you'd never think those could exist in a parking lot.

The driver slammed something fierce upon the brakes to slow his mad charge. Newton smiled upon Fernando on this day, though, for the laws of motion held true and the gent in the truck's bed was pitched forward through the power of inertia as the truck suddenly decreased its velocity, rapping his head on something in the bed, rising moments later cursing loudly and clearly enough for Fernando to hear inside the store, rubbing at the side of his head and pounding on the truck cab's roof in impotent ire as the vehicle vanished from sight.

These comrades reconciled soon enough, apparently, and when they made the return trip (at a markedly slower pace) a few minutes later Fernando espied the wounded young man nestled amidst cases of Busch Lite, glaring out at the world with a watchful eye against any that might attempt waylaying the caravan's precious cargo.

Beer does heal all wounds, it seems.