When I entered the place I noticed that the shelves toward the front of the place were pretty much bare, the only thing within immediate sight being the drinks cooler. I glanced through the cooler's glass but didn't notice any Gatorade, so I scoped out the rear of the store and found it stocked with ancient canned goods whose labels had faded somewhat, but that was a moot point since the cans were encrusted with the dust of the ages. Still detecting no Gatorade, I turned my head to the left and almost jumped out of my skin when I came face-to-face with this horror:
Then, back home in Brooklyn, I came across this tag on the 20th Street side of a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint I love on Fifth Avenue:
I have no idea who "Tony Crak" is, but apparently he's the king of something. Perhaps crack.