The fool wasn't on the phone, Brice thought. This would have been the best time for him to be on it. He didn't need for him to notice he was hurt. He went down two aisles before finding the bandages on a lower shelf. The price on them displayed a million dollars to him.
"Don't dropped blood on my floor," the clerk said in a thick accent. He left from behind the counter and joined Brice in the same aisle. "You need help?" He held the pricing gun like it was his protection.
"I need these bandages," Brice said approaching him. "I'll pay for them tomorrow."
The clerk disappeared from sight but Brice heard him unlocking the door behind the counter. He turned and grabbed a bottle of alcohol, running the alcohol over his wounded leg until it soaked through his jeans. He took a couple of bandages from the box. He calls the cops on petty thief yet sells crack bottles. Returning with plastic gloves and scissors, the clerk knelt down and started cutting along the seam of Brice's jeans.
"This block is a good place to live," the clerk said. "I never knew drugs could bring so much death. It has brought as much death as I seen in war." Pressing the wound with a bandage with one hand, he pointed at the medical tape with the other. Brice handed to him.
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