The Non-schizophrenic

“Yes, but what about the pommegranites?” he asked. I looked over the gas pump to the fellow on the other side. No one near him, and he certainly wasn't talking to me. “I need the pommegranites,” he said, really needing the pommegranites it seems.

I peered into his car. Couldn't be one hundred percent sure, but there seemed to be no one in the car. What an odd fellow, I thought.

“Okay, maybe we cam substiture kwumquates,” he said, replacing the gas nozzle to the pump and turning his head just enough for me to catch the ear piece and the wire snaking down to a unit on his belt. “But people are going to notice.” I just noticed that he wasn't schizophrenic.

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