Like a spiderless Miss Moffitt, she sits perched on her high stool behind a counter, dispensing death to a community. This place, over which she shares dominion with the teacher, the priest and the doctor. Psycho inert substances, barbiturates, opiates, whatever the doctor orders, she peddles and as long as you have the note, the dispensary note, the prescription you get the man’s antidisestablishment substance. And always with a sneer, “Mr Sniffle”, she peers down her equine nose and purses her electrolyticly removed hairless lips. Maw and Paw Sniffle scored a load gear here, gear from which I was never weaned, and the lill Sniffles have drunk deeply at her yellow anti-biotic foamy fountain. The teenagers can’t score a ten-spot round our gaff, yet she sprays it around like candy.
Beginning with that hand which rocks your cradle baby, power is held over you for the duration by a succession of individuals and institutions until you can no longer say “any day above ground is a good one”. They’re everywhere, people who want to boss you, have a piece of you, punters who want to be in charge.of.you. They said (that’s the big They, this is a paranoid posting) that the priests had the power, all the time fondling our children and riding each other and getting confused about each other and the children. Priests have never been top of my Christmas card list, too black, too unholy. But other uniforms jump up and grab at your genitalia.
But it’s the Mr. thing which yanks my junkie chain. She knows too much, she has my records, she has three generations of Sniffle records. What does she know which so exercises me? What is it about her dispenses which diss’s me so. It’s the arm’s length Mr. Sniffle thing when she knows I’ve had diarrhea, it’s the removal from my pile pain, it’s the silent judgment on my sleeping pill, it’s a lot of things but mostly it’s the power which she won’t let go, our Mrs. O.