Randy's Revenge (The Pharmacist)

Disclaimers: This fiction of over-18 scuzbags contains unpleasantness and an instance of less-than-willing sex. Tags: noncon, revenge, intolerance, small town, satire, horror, mayhem, dwarf molestation, Randy, raw liver and mayonnaise. If you are easily offended, stop reading. No humans or other creatures were harmed to make this crud, which I hope none finds stimulating. You have been warned. Do not complain.

Do not fuck with the little guy

Warm breezes wafted sweet scents through the clear country air. Birds chirped. Bees buzzed. Leaves waved. Flowers bloomed. Humans and animals fucked, each according to their kind and inclination. Springtime had come to Freehold.

Freehold was a small quiet town, a typical mid-American rural community, deeply embedded in the state's proud cultural heritage. Freehold was filled with typical mid-American folks holding typical mid-American attitudes and beliefs.

Freehold made THE MUSIC MAN look like a cheap documentary.

Neighbors waved and cried "Hello!" when they passed townsfolk on the street.

Children played on the monkey bars and teeter-totter and merry-go-round in the pristine park behind the primary school house.

An ice-cream truck rang its bell and played its music as it cruised through the town.

Kindly gentlemen helped little old ladies at intersections.

Yes, the people of Freehold were warm and generous to their neighbors.

They were kindly to most of their neighbors, anyway. But they didn't like freaks.

Ah, freak-o-phobia. That was one mid-American attitude at which they were quite practiced. They hid-away their freaks when they could. The deformed, retarded, maimed, were all stashed away, warehoused in secret, never displayed nor discussed.

One freak could not be ignored. Dr Randall Erasmus 'Randy' Ronk, the town pharmacist, was a hideously ugly dwarf.

--

Locals often whispered to each other when they strode the sidewalk past the drugstore's front door. Sometimes they crossed to the other side of the street.

"Did you see Ronk buying stuff down at the Co-Op yesterday? I nearly puked when he came near me!"

"That nasty turd dwarf better stay far away from me and my family, that's all I can say!"

"Remember that time weird little Randy was in the town park and Vilmer's dogs got loose? They chased that ugly toad all the way back here! Nearly got'im, too! Boy howdy, I'd sure'a liked to have seen that!"

"Yeah, little sucker sure can run good for a half-pint. Maybe we could grease his shoes, slow him down."

"You think you can find anyone willing to touch that scrawny runt's shoes? Good luck with that!"

"For sure, I'd just want to touch him with a baseball bat. Might have to throw it away afterwards."

Yeah, those nice folks, the normal people, sure had a thing for Randy.

And he reciprocated the feelings.

--

Randy spent most of his hours in his not-too-large, not-too-clean drug store, stumbling along narrow corridors nestled between high shelves loaded with powders and pills and potions, tracking his druggy inventory, climbing the rolling ladders, and muttering and cursing.

Yes, venting to himself endlessly. Fucking "normal people"! All those shits, all those shit-for-brains who just ridicule him and hate him. He hates them in return, a rich world of hate, a full load!

The hate is nothing new, in both directions.

Randy grew up in Freehold. He went to local schools until his early teens. He was ugly, and reviled. Nobody knew of his dwarfism until puberty struck him without a growth spurt -- he just stayed short, and got uglier. All the locals knew him all his life, and hated him all his life.

Oh yes, Randy had been ugly all his life, a putrid laughing-stock.

Randy's head was always bulbous and deformed, nearly hairless, with pendulous nose and ears and lips. No girl would touch him, let alone kiss him. All the kids laughed at him. So did their parents. He was a runt puppy, the ugliest kid in grade school.

Randy somehow survived the public primary grades. But a dwarf in Freehold High School? No way. He went straight from torture in grade school to durance vile in a private 'academy', the local bin for retards and freaks.

Randy was no dummy, no way. He was quite brilliant in biology and chemistry and other sciences. He won full scholarships in pharmacology to major colleges. He quickly achieved a doctorate. Not easily -- he nauseated all his instructors.

"Fuck me, why does that wee little freak have to be so damn SMART? He turns my bloody stomach, the shit. But I HAVE to give the cunt a passing grade. Bollocks!"

"Go on, pass him, with honors, whatever. Then you'll be rid of him."

"For this semester, sure. But he'll be back. Fuck me, why did I take tenure?"

"Whatever more classes of yours that he'll be in, just be sure your TA's can take the shock. You know Griswold lost her TA's 'cause of him. Lost her grant, too."

"Maybe we can get him in some foreign study program. Let him take his bloody classes in fucking Mumbai or wherever. He can sicken those wog bastards, not us."

"No, I think we're stuck with him till graduation. Keep taking your Xanax."

Oddly, major biotech and big pharma firms did not recruit Randy. Corporate recruiters came to his campus but never seemed to notice his resume. He was never offered an internship. Even the low-standards Wallys (WalMart and Walgreens) and the low-class CVS did not want him toddling behind the counters of their chain-store pharmacies.

Randy's uncle Lars died and left him a run-down drug store back in Freehold. Sighing, Randy came back home.

--

"All my life, I've watched those sycophantic shits, those so-called neighbors. Disgusting dolts and dummies! Haven't got the brains of a banana slug! Fucking neotenous 'normals'! But they call ME the freak! All those oversize ork-headed stupid fat-ass fucktards!

"Freak, am I? Well shit, let's just see who's the freakiest around here! Fucking microcephalic turd-burglars. Jeez, I'd like to ram my hungry cock right up all their cunts and assholes and mouths and nostrils and eye sockets, then piss in-em all, get-em to enjoy it, show-em what it's like, fuck yeah..."

Yes, Randy was a freak. And not just on the outside. He was not only physically repulsive. His wee warped wasted body contained a consciousness even more warped and wasted than his facade, a consciousness twisted into raw depravity, twisted out of human recognition by fate and by hate.

No, Randy's insanity did not arrive out of the blue. It was hand-delivered by his neighbors and customers.

Randy stood on his high wooden crate behind the counter, leaning on his elbows. Mr Hemlock, the well-dressed banker, slammed through the shop door with a crash.

"Hey there, FREAK! You got my Viagra ready yet?" the banker sneered.

Randy suppressed his righteous rage. The expression on his deformed face was unreadable. He meekly handed the good-looking 'normal' a sealed medicine bottle.

"Yes sir, Mr Hemlock, it's right here, charge that to your credit card?"

"Hell, runt, just put it on my account. You won't need money till the end of the month, hah? Yeah, don't worry, you'll get paid, all in due time. Thanks, FREAK!"

The banker scooped up the bottle and slammed the door behind him.

"Don't let the doorknob poke your ass on your way out, dipshit," Randy thought.

The same old Catch-22: Randy's tormentors provided his livelihood. He depended on them absolutely. He existed at their whim, so he had to play nice. He could not do much about the situation except wait... and HATE!

--

And hate he did, folks. He hated every singly goddam human who passed his door. He hated them ALL! Well, all except one...

The bell on the drugstore door rang a warning. Thin blonde Gilda Gilroy entered, scribbled scrip and MedicAid card in hand. Her low-cut sun dress displayed ample cleavage of her underfed body. Her dark prominent nipples poked eerily through the thin, faded material.

"Dexedrine," Gilda whispered in her usual strung-out scratchy voice.

Randy's deformed heart nearly broke as he handed her the bottle. Gilda eagerly popped-off the lid and popped two heart-shaped tablets into her thin-lipped mouth.

"Thanks," Gilda's vocal cords rasped as she stumbled out to the street.

Gilda had stolen Randy's soul the instant she first opened his shop door and waved a scrip at him. She was no beauty queen, for sure, but her tense emaciated form captured his imagination and drove his terrible testicles into fuming frenzies.

Sometimes, little Randy just stood in his back office, staring at a wall calendar, rubbing his hands together anxiously as he thought about the next day Gilda would return to him, bearing a fresh drug-ticket from her busy medical scrip-writer.

"Oh yes, I'll fill your order, beautiful Gilda! I'll fill every hole in your body, every pore, every aperture. I'll fill you with all my love, oh my darling! Yes, come back to me, oh my darling Gilda!" Randy muttered.

His usual thoughts led inexorably to his usual warped fantasies. These fantasies were pretty sick, pretty depraved, pretty satisfying...

Randy sees himself and Gilda, their magically-glowing flesh entwined in rapture. Naked Gilda embraces Randy's twisted nude body and strokes his misshapen head.

In Randy's waking dream, he sees Gilda lasciviously hunched over him, lowering her pale venomous vulva to him, a hot hookah somehow emerging from her meager ass, its flexible tube snaking around to his lusty face, pumping hallucinogenic-narcotic fumes at him.

Yes, her every fart is psychedelic.

Gilda slurps Randy's round, nearly-hairless head, covers him in lubricating layers of saliva, then spreads her legs wide and presses his head deep into her gaping maw of a cunt. He slides into her wet womb, is reborn, drowned in love and slime.

Gilda pulls him out, draws her butt cheeks apart, and inserts him fully into her yawning anus. He swims through her colon, her maze of intestines, to her stomach, where he is absorbed, just like his steaming cum she swallowed earlier.

Randy's vision envelops him. He snuffles "NNNRRRGHH! UHH... UNNH!" and cums a few red drops, like raspberry druplets, but thinner.

Randy's blown mind sailed through a dream world, a pseudo-reality where he was emperor and Gilda was his submissive subservient sex-slave empress. A world full of pleasure, and luxury, and power, and desire, and no goddam fucktard townspeople leering and sneering at him, scorning him. A world of intricate fantasies that are definitely not PC. A world he could live in when real life sucked too much.

Oops. Randy's fantasy balloon was about to pop - "POIT!"

Yes, reality got even worse. Reality destroyed Randy's dreams. Reality fucked him over. Don't you hate when that happens?

--

The beginning of the end was signaled by the tinkle-jingle of the little brass-ass bell atop the dirty drugstore door.

A tall hard redneck stud came in the door. A rolled-up tee-shirt sleeve nestled a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes. His duck's-ass hair was glued in place with dollops of Greasy Kid Stuff. His faded jeans strained to contain a massive cock. Old construction-worker boots groaned under his nearly illiterate swagger.

"Hey FREAK! Get yer goat-sucking butt out here! You got my pills ready?"

Big Duke Hardascz awaited his regular dosages of the dehydrated rattlesnake semen that kept him virile and tumescent, or so he supposed.

Big Duke was big, yes he was. Big Duke was also petty and vicious and just plain rotten, mean as a blue-balled sidewinder, foul as a conservative talk-show host.

"C'mon RUNT, I ain't got all fucking day, I got me a hot date," Duke snarled at Randy standing on his crate behind the counter.

The shop door rang again. Scrawny strung-out Gilda glided in.

"Dexedrine," Gilda whispered as she slithered over to Duke and leaned against him. He wrapped a massive arm around her spindly shoulders. His hand cupped one saggy scraggy breast.

Duke proclaimed, "Hey maggot! Say HI to my new babe for me. C'mon, say: HI, GILDA!"

Randy choked and muttered, "No, no, it can't be, no no..."

Duke reached out an immense vice-like hand and grabbed the pharmacist around his scrawny scabby neck. He lifted Randy bodily from his crate.

"Hey dickweed, you got a problem here? You don't approve of my fuck-bunny here?"

Duke spit in Randy's face, then threw the little druggist's dwarved deformed body against the nearest wall with a CRASH!

"Moron! HAH! C'mon Gilda, let's get out of here. We got us some FUCKING to do!"

Duke grabbed his and Gilda's drug bottles from the counter and dragged Gilda out the door. "Thanks," Gilda rasped as she stumbled behind Duke. The doorbell cried in despair, or so Randy's ringing ears told him.

Bruised Randy half-slumped against the wall of cabinets, half-crumpled on the floor amid broken bottles, one shoe off, his shirt torn, crying piteously.

Randy's world was smashed, trashed, destroyed! Duke had stolen all that Randy had to live for, all that made his forsaken life endurable, all his hopes and dreams. Duke had taken his frenzied fantasies of Gilda and left him with nothing, NOTHING!

Randy was desolated.

--

Randy's shop door was locked, a CLOSED sign taped in the darkened dirty window. Pounding on his door garnered no response. Randy had holed-up, retreated to something like safety, back down into his cramped crowded basement stronghold.

He had dreamed his futile dreams of Gilda there, hour after hour, week after week. Now, he cried-out his twisted pathetic heart in not-so-mute agony.

With nothing to sustain his demented deluded wet-dreams, Randy freaked out, his brain overloaded with agony. He gave in to despair and desperation and his own special insanity. A distinctly creative-destructive insanity.

Yes, he still hallucinated about Gilda, caring Gilda, loving Gilda, desperate Gilda -- but now her face shifted and twisted into Duke's contemptuous visage. No! Never! Those arrogant pig-eyes burned into Randy's heart like death rays.

Randy's heart, his mind, his very soul, all melted and broiled in that searing fire. And, like pig-iron in a blast furnace, the dross and trivia burnt away, leaving Randy's inner core tempered and titanium-hard.

Randy passed beyond 'fear' and 'hate' and other such trivial emotions. Randy was now forged into a razor-sharp blade with but one purpose: REVENGE!

Yes, REVENGE!! Randy's lifetime accumulation of hurts and abuses and sneers and snarls mixed together in an unholy brew, and spewed-forth his response: REVENGE!!

He concocted a plan, and the means to implement that plan. His plan became his dream. His dream was to become reality. And the townsfolk would not enjoy it.

--

The pharmacy had been closed and silent and dark for a couple weeks now. The townsfolk were becoming concerned... about Randy? Shit, no! NOBODY gave a good rat's ass about that weird deformed little freak!

But the locals had prescriptions to be filled, drugs and medications to buy and use and maybe abuse. They had their physical and psychological and psychotic needs -- fuck the pharmacist! Give us our pills and potions!

Some late-night carousers staggering down the alley behind Main Street said (as they recovered from blistering hangovers) that they had seen faint lights and heard soft clattering sounds emitting from the heavily-curtained rear windows of the drug store.

Townsfolk hearing their tales had hopes that Randy was back at work, mixing their preparations, ready to relieve their backlog of chemical necessities.

Randy indeed worked hard, relentlessly, obsessively, surrounded by raw materials and lab gear and his own psychic miasma. Noxious brews bubbled and fumed. Notes containing special formulae for special orders were consulted and revised.

Yes, special orders. All his customers would receive special orders.

How special?

Ah, Randy had been conducting experiments. Quite peculiar, fascinating experiments. Experiments leading to his goal. Experiments that would never be sanctioned by any reputable laboratory or funding source. Experiments that would never be documented and published in peer-reviewed journals.

Randy toiled relentlessly through the long dank nights and dreary dismal days in masochistic purdah, isolated from his fellow creatures and the outer world.

Perhaps you would like to theorize about his work. What do you think he was doing?

Was he trying to cure diseases?

Was he trying to improve formulations?

Was he trying for a commercial breakthrough?

Was he working hard to benefit his fellow citizens?

Yeah, sure.

Let us watch Randy as he scuttles around his impromptu basement lab. It is not the cleanest place, nor the brightest, but so what? It suits his needs.

(Don't inhale -- you don't want to SMELL this stuff!)

We see Randy looking through a microscope, surrounded by lab glassware - flasks, beakers, retorts, condensers. We see Randy mixing chemicals, pouring from flasks into beakers. We see hypodermics scattered around, and glass slides, and forceps.

We see covered lab jars containing animal embryos in suspension, floating in their preservative soups, their neonatal faces staring blindly into eternity.

The embryos do not look quite... right.

We see wire racks containing yawning ranks of test tubes, each tube individually labeled and stoppered, each containing its own unique formulation.

We see latex-gloved hands using an eyedropper to carefully administer chemicals from the test tubes into dosages: capsules, tablets, potions, and lotions, the very medicines so eagerly awaited by the townsfolk to relieve their various aches, pains, infections, habits, and nightmares.

And just what made these medicines so special?

Randy had made a tremendous scientific discovery! He had developed a set of chemical compounds, in time-release doses, that caused uniform shrinkage of living cells -- that caused tissues, bones, organs, muscles, and nerves to rapidly diminish to a controlled fraction of their normal size!

With these chemicals, Randy had achieved... CONTROL!

--

Randy re-opened his shop. Customers came pouring his door. They were not kind. They were not patient.

"Where you been, runt?" shouted one sweating flushed man.

"Gimme my pills, freak!" screamed a pale trembling woman.

"I want my stuff and I want it now!" bellowed the mayor, a ketamine addict.

"Yessir, yes'm, here are your medicines, all ready for you," quavered Randy.

Bottles were grabbed. Payments were made grudgingly. Dosages were consumed.

After the initial rush for chemical relief, the townsfolk settled down to their usual pathetic routines. They fucked and fought and farted and filled their fat heads with television crap and radio ratshit. They greeted each other and sneered at Randy. Everything was back to normal.

Normalcy lasted for about a week. Then, everything changed, just after dawn.

Let us watch the townsfolk respond to their medications.

We see a greasy fat balding man shaving in front of mirror. He barely notices as he gradually shrinks. Then his hand is tired, weighted down. He stares astounded at his suddenly-larger razor. His nose bumps the edge of the sink as his height diminishes. His body is lost within his clothes, which fall around him.

We see a pubescent boy sitting on his toilet, wearing no pants, lazily reading a comic book featuring improbable super-heroines showing lots of flesh. His hand idly strokes his little dick. He barely notices as the comic seems to enlarge in his lap. He is startled when his shrunken body splashes into the toilet bowl.

We see a heavy tired middle-aged woman lying naked and alone in her bed moving a buzzing vibrator slowly in and out of her worn vagina. She notices her toy seems to grow and her pussy is increasingly filled with its cold macho hardness. Her orgasm is hard and long. She screams in joy and ecstasy and agony and more...