"it's not about addiction" said Crazy Henry. "it's about stale bread."
"how so?" I asked him, curious. we were at Minnehaha Park, trying to escape the intolerable wet heat of an August weekend. we'd each had 3 root beer floats from the A&W stand, and I was nursing a stomach ache in consequence. I had said I was addicted to root beer floats and that they were killing me.
for answer, he rummaged in his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of white bread, pressed into a pill. this he popped in his mouth. "there" he said. "a stale bread pill suppresses the addictive personality for up to 48 hours. a known scientific fact." "you're talking complete bosh, like always!" I shot back, my belly ache getting worse. I needed to find a park bathroom. "just try one before you burn me at the stake" he said, offering me a bread pill from his pocket. it was covered in lint but I took it anyway -- just to see if my stomach ache would go away. and it did! I began to feel both happy and drowsy. "what's in those bread pills of yours?" I asked him, as I slid onto a concrete park bench. but Crazy Henry wasn't there anymore. instead there was a giant pineapple grinning at me. "tell Congress I love them" were my last words as I sank into a coma.
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