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GWOT 2 Crossload
GWOT 2 Crossload
Of course, the one food vendor on Homeland's list willing to work with us on payment was ... you guessed it ... Systema Foods.
We knew the vendor. Too well. I'd helped burglarize them.
So none of us who had been on that highly illegal operation could ever visit the premises. Betty, Sharon, Janine and yours truly.
They might even have video analytics of me. I'd been wearing a towel over my forehead and across my face, and riding a bicycle, but it was amazing what could be done with video these days.
We knew the route to run a convoy there. So I sent Arturo, George and Brooke - all heavily armed - while I bit my nails and prayed.
They came back with a fully loaded truck.
Including two pallets of ... pickles.
That is correct. They were sticking everyone with pickles, which no one wanted, to clear the warehouse space.
The good news is that we could now slip in the stolen pickles with the purchased ones.
The bad news is ... pickles.
Dill pickles. Spear pickles. Whole pickles. Pickle chips.
But it was officially a vegetable, and therefore on the ration list, and we had to take our fair share.
Enraged, our cafeteria manager took one look at the pickle boxes, cracked one open, shoved her fry cook away from the fryer, and poured in a certain amount.
Fried pickles. Really. Not french fries, not fried potatoes, and certainly not fried chicken.
Fried. Pickle. Chips.
Before I thought to do something about it, E18 Sundries sold the last two bottles of ranch dressing.
They're not bad in soy sauce, it turns out. OK in ketchup.
But I really missed ranch.
The little pleasures matter, even in apocalypse.
Of course, the one food vendor on Homeland's list willing to work with us on payment was ... you guessed it ... Systema Foods.
We knew the vendor. Too well. I'd helped burglarize them.
So none of us who had been on that highly illegal operation could ever visit the premises. Betty, Sharon, Janine and yours truly.
They might even have video analytics of me. I'd been wearing a towel over my forehead and across my face, and riding a bicycle, but it was amazing what could be done with video these days.
We knew the route to run a convoy there. So I sent Arturo, George and Brooke - all heavily armed - while I bit my nails and prayed.
They came back with a fully loaded truck.
Including two pallets of ... pickles.
That is correct. They were sticking everyone with pickles, which no one wanted, to clear the warehouse space.
The good news is that we could now slip in the stolen pickles with the purchased ones.
The bad news is ... pickles.
Dill pickles. Spear pickles. Whole pickles. Pickle chips.
But it was officially a vegetable, and therefore on the ration list, and we had to take our fair share.
Enraged, our cafeteria manager took one look at the pickle boxes, cracked one open, shoved her fry cook away from the fryer, and poured in a certain amount.
Fried pickles. Really. Not french fries, not fried potatoes, and certainly not fried chicken.
Fried. Pickle. Chips.
Before I thought to do something about it, E18 Sundries sold the last two bottles of ranch dressing.
They're not bad in soy sauce, it turns out. OK in ketchup.
But I really missed ranch.
The little pleasures matter, even in apocalypse.