“Hnnnnnnnngh!” he said to the pharmacist while doubling over, “HNNNNNNNNNGH NNNNG!”
“You sure are cranky, sir,” the pharmacist said, “I’m afraid I can’t help someone so cranky.”
“HNNNNNGH – bllllp!” the guy said, vomiting on the floor.
“Sir!” the pharmacist shouted, “that floor costs good money to keep clean! I’m sorry, but I cannot stomach this behavior.”
The pharmacist stepped around the counter, removed his rubber glove and slapped the guy across the face.
“I will have satisfaction!” he stated. The guy fell to the floor as the pharmacist retrieved a case from behind the counter.
“I have here,” the pharmacist said, “My grandfather’s dueling pistols. The day my Ol-Papa gave them to me, he said, ‘Doctor,’ for that is my name – Doctor Pharmacist – he said, ‘Doctor, never let a man besmirch your honor or your floors. Should you feel even the slightest bit of dishonor, ever, anywhere, in any situation, you pull out these guns and challenge them to a duel. Slap them first, though, so they know you’re serious and not just dandying about. Then, shoot them to death with one of the guns. Don’t give them the other one; that’s a sure way to lose the duel and end up dead yourself. No, pull out one gun and shoot them with it. Then, hold the gun above your head and shout, “I am the duel master!” and dance about. Do you think you can do that? Eh? EH?! Look at me you pansy!’ But, he had already died. Because I’d shot him.”
Doctor Pharmacist the pharmacist held aloft one of his mighty guys. Guns. I meant guns but I typed ‘guys.’
“See how the sun shines off its gun handle?” he said.
The guy was gone.
“I am the duel master,” Doctor Pharmacist whispered, “I am the duel master.”
He didn’t dance about, though. There were customers.