When a woman walked into the pharmacy, her strides were purposeful, and her gaze fixed firmly on the pharmacist behind the counter. Without hesitation, she leaned in and said in an even, unwavering voice, “I need to buy some cyanide.”
The pharmacist froze, startled by the blunt request. “Excuse me?” he stammered. “Why would you possibly need cyanide?”
“To poison my husband,” she replied matter-of-factly.
His jaw nearly hit the counter. “What? Are you insane? Ma’am, I can’t just sell you cyanide! That’s illegal! If I did, I’d lose my license, we’d both go to jail—you do realize that, don’t you? Absolutely not! You can’t have any cyanide!”
The woman let out a long, exasperated sigh and reached into her handbag. Wordlessly, she retrieved a photograph and placed it on the counter. The picture clearly showed her husband in bed—with the pharmacist’s wife.
The pharmacist’s face drained of color as he stared at the damning evidence. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. Finally, he cleared his throat and pushed the photo back toward her with a newfound air of calm.
“Well,” he said, his tone carefully measured, “you didn’t mention you had a prescription. That’s a different story.”
