Headed up the road to the supermarket. It's close to midnight. John had a hit of the munchies, and I felt like a walk, so; up I go. There are a couple of pubs open, raucous laughter and shouting fill the night, mixed in with pop rock, like hot gas from a heater. The supermarket is just ahead, a glowing beacon on Darling St., blinding neon coaxing shamelessly, sirens luring ship to shore.
Entering the arena is the easy part. The fight is what kills you. Workers fuss hastily; closing time bringing thoughts of home to mind. A few fellow stragglers trawl the aisles, baskets piled high with toilet paper and band aids, all the crap you need just before bed. I reel from the assault of brands, logos piercing my mind and triggering jingles that mix into each other until they form a single word: Buy.
I am an obedient subject. First stop; Coca-Cola. Check. Next; what else? Chocolate. Copious amounts of hydroponic marijuana inevitably lead to copious amounts of cocoa. It's a proven fact. Kit-Kats and roast almonds, all the flavours under the sun. It's a wonder that people can function in this day and age. We are bombarded by choice, a relentless stream of 'what's next?'. How can a man get by when he's being battered around the head with a million fucking flavours of peanut butter? I put it on toast for crying-out-loud!
Defeated, I head back home. This what the hunter has been reduced to; Homo-sapiens, bag carrier of the future.
