The Day the World Went Insane

         People smiled. When you looked around at people on the street, walking or pushing strollers, you knew they were all reasonably happy and warm inside. When someone honked their horn at you, you knew the person behind the wheel was smiling and waving whether they knew you or not. And the people at the Dextotrin-B factory were certainly happy. The supervisors, their bosses the CEO's, and their bosses the chairmen of the Federal Drug Administration Board were all ecstatic. But aside from the whole Dextotrin-B bureaucracy, everyone was getting along almost perfectly.
         Crime was extremely low. Most criminals were the product of insufficient dosages or over-sufficient dosages or had one or more of the very limited number of ailments NOT treated by Dextotrin-B. Unlike version A, B cured everything from Anorexia to xenophobia. A, as people joked, stood for aneurysms. There were numerous lawsuits after the freerange distribution of A, but those days were gone and nearly forgotten.
         Now, people just took B. The medication was produced, supplied and regulated by careful government controls, and everyone was happy with that. Everyone was HAPPY.
         One day at the Dextotrin-B processing plant, where they boiled down a rare species of seaweed to get the potent extract which, in a nutshell, was the cureall of curealls, the happy workers waited idly in the loading bay. For some reason, the truck from the seaweed farm was late. The workers sat on the concrete staging area, swinging their feet and patting their thighs. Two hours later someone decided to call the farm to make sure everyone was okay. Trucks were never late.
         The phone rang only once before a sunny voice greeted the process supervisor.
         "Good morning! Thankyou for choosing Greenleaf Garden, how may I help you?"
         "Yes, this is supervisor Mackeral. I work at the plant processing plant. I just wanted to make sure that everyone was okay, first off."
         The voice beamed, "Yessir! Everyone's doing great on this end. However, our shipment seems to be having some difficulties."
         Mackeral's smile dropped, but only a hair, "Oh? Is there any way that me or my men can be of assistance?"
         "No'sir. No'sir, we should have it under control. The seaweed is just being a little stubborn today. It sank to the bottom of the tank, and we're not sure why. But thankyou for your concern!"
         "No problem. Don't work too hard, okay?" said the supervisor with not even a hint of sarcasm.
         And all appearances would have suggested that the people at the seaweed farm had taken Mackeral's advice. No shipment came, and with nothing to do all day, the plant workers decided to call the day done at 2 in the afternoon.
         The next day, Mackeral decided to call again to be sure that everything had sorted itself out, but the sunny disposition on the other end of the call informed him that the seaweed was dead. Only a small quantity could be salvaged, and it was en route as they spoke, scarcely enough to fill a single 2 gallon bucket.
         Mackeral decided to call his boss, one of the lower CEOs in charge of the region. The phone rang once and was immediately answered by a very placid, official voice.
         "Burkley here, from the Federal Drug Administration Board. How may I be of service?"
         "Hey, Stan. This is Willie Mack. Say, I have a bit of a problem here." said Mackeral, still smiling.
         "Okay, tell me about it."
         "Well, the farm says some kind of plant disease has stricken their seaweed. Only a couple gallons could be saved. The rest died and sank, and they're draining the tanks to try and clean them to get ready to cultivate more."
         "So, Greenleaf was hit too?" asked the CEO.
         "Yes, completely and totally."
         "That makes about three gallons of seaweed left in the entire company. We won't be able to make very much medicine, will we?"
         Mackeral scratched his chin, "No, this is bad."
         "Very. I'm going to call the head chairman of the FDA and let him know immediately. I'll ring you back with the verdict."
         "Thanks" replied Mack, confident in his superior's ability to fix this conundrum.

         The phone didn't ring until almost quitting time, and Mack hurried to answer it, anxious for something to do and growing tired of playing poker for crackers and snacks with the other guys. The CEO sounded slightly rattled, and spoke quickly but pleasantly.
         "Willie. I just got done with the conference call. Seriously, it took all day. The president himself ordered that enough medication for himself and his cabinet for two months be reserved. Anything that's left should be divided among company employees starting at the top. There should be enough for you and your family for at least two weeks."
         "Wait, there's no more?" asked Mack, genuinely confused, "But the farms..."
         "All gone. The FBI is in the process of investigating. Somehow, they think it may have been domestic terrorism. I can't even imagine why. Listen, don't tell your men that you're getting any Dextotrin-B. There just isn't enough for the plant workers. Don't even try and sell them any, it could put you in serious danger."
         "Okay, if you say so, boss. How long before the seaweed regrows? Maybe a week or two?"
         "No, the adult stage of the crop is only reached four months into it's growth. This is when it begins secreting the active ingredient. Nothing can be done. But be assured, there's nowere in the world safer than where you are. Out by the farms, there aren't many people around, so if there's a series of riots, then you'll most likely avoid them."
         "Okay. Thanks, Stan. I guess I won't be here tomorrow, so you stay safe and keep Kelly and the kids safe, you hear?"
         "You and your family too. Goodbye, Mack."
         "Goodbye."

         The day dismissed as though nothing had happened, and to the general public's knowledge, it hadn't. Mack and Stan went home to their families and locked their doors for the first time in their lives that night. Everyone slept soundly, and behind closed curtains the day's shipment of Dextotrin-B was divvied up between the higher-ups of the FDA and their subsidiaries.
         At 5:30 AM, the cars began piling up at the pharmaceutical booths on the highway, commuters patiently waiting in line for their daily dose of D-B. The booth operators, whose job it was to hand out one pill to each commuter and to punch their card to show that they had received their medication, were growing upset. Not only was there no medication for the commuters, but they weren't able to find any for themselves either.
         Gradually, the delayed commuters began to question their medication handlers when they weren't being allowed to pass or to take their daily dosage.
         "Excuse me, sir. What's the holdup?", asked a woman in her SUV, sipping a coffee and diddling around with her phone. She had been sitting in the pharm-booth slot for almost 10 minutes now, waiting on the guy to hand her her daily D-B.
         "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm trying very hard, but I can't seem to find the medication. Hold on for just a minute, I'll call my manager." he replied courteously.
         Brandon called his manager, who worked over in booth one where the pills were mainly stored. His manager didn't answer. Unbeknownst to Brandon, his manager was one of the privileged few who were warned, and had taken his girlfriend and girlfriend's two kids and a box of pills and run like hell for a more rural setting. A place where nobody would find them if things began to deteriorate.
         The call was placed four more times, and the woman began tapping on her steering wheel as she sipped her coffee. She decided to stare at Brandon, glaring at him through her thick glasses and putting her hair up in a ponytail. He called and called, then tried calling some of the other booth operators. None were answering because they were already beginning to argue with the impatient patients who were becoming quite testy without their D-B.
         "Excuse me. Yeah, I'm talking to you. I'm already going to be late for work. Just give me whatever you have and let's get this moving." growled the lady.
         Brandon wheeled around at the alien sound of a disquieted human being and thought about how it made him feel. He took a deep breath, trying to get a grip and succeeding.
         "Ma'am, just give me a few minutes. Something isn't right. You know I can't let you though without giving you your medicine. It's International law. I don't want to be liquidated over this, so calm down and listen to some music or something."
         "Bullshit! Just because you wear a nice shirt and a purple tie you think you can tell people what to do..." she sneered, lowering her glasses at him.
         "It's fucking maroon, you fat bitch! Now shut up before I do something we'll regret." he screamed, his neck craned low, head pushed through his window and almost through hers too. Horns behind them began to blare.
         "What's your manager's name? Is he here? I need to inform him that some of his male employees have shrimp dicks and that it makes them angry and interferes with their work. I might be okay without the Dextotrin, but some of you people REALLY need the stuff."
         "Oh fuck you..." he grunted, kicking open the door to his booth and stepping off of the sidewalk, making a beeline for the window of ehr car. He didn't know exactly what he was going to do when he got there, but he had a feeling it would be like those old movies you could still watch on the internet where toughguys threw people around and made them feel sorry.
         "What the hell are you doing, man?" she yelled, reaching for the fork she kept in her center console.
         "Get out of there. Get out of your car!" he yelled, grabbing her door handle just as she hit the lock button. She couldn't remember the last time she had locked her car.
         As the window began going up, Brandon panicked and punched it as hard as he could, which certainly wasn't enough to break it, but it was enough to make his hand explode into awful, throbbing pain. The woman tapped on the glass and began mocking him.
         Brandon wheeled around and went back into his booth, picking up the file cabinet drawer that never seemed to slide back in properly, and suddenly he knew that he could take his anger out on the file cabinet and the woman at the same time. He ripped the drawer out, feeling it heavy enoug that he had to use two hands. He could see the lady beginning to freak out in her SUV, and it made him feel good.
         The look in her eyes said that she was about to try ramming her car though the carbon steel arm of the booth. The look in Brandon's said, "Go ahead. Try it."
         He staggered out of the door of his booth, carrying the heavy drawer on his shoulder, made twice as massive by the full files of punchcards inside. He lifted it high above his head, feeling his back and legs waver under the bulk, and brought it down hard on the driver's side window.
         The scream before the drawer crashed into the car was barely audible, but screeched to life as the cabinet drawer smashed through easily, throwing glass and paperwork onto the shrieking woman, who struggled to get away even though the glass dug into her and had begun sifting in through the collar of her shirt and the waist of her pants. Brandon laughed with glee as he reached through the broken window and unlocked the door. He quickly plucked the keys form the ignition, and knew that he'd be able to do whatever he wanted from here on with this ungrateful consumer. He never saw the fork coming toward his face, even though it hit him right in the eye.

         Across town, at the Eastern gate, an 18 wheeler had managed to plow through a steel booth arm, and cars had begun spilling through into the city. People were very upset, and those who were in too big of a rush and cut people off were rear ended on purpose, several getting pushed off of the road.
         A man in a beat up old Cadillac shot across in front of a jacked-up truck reminiscent of Bigfoot or Grave Digger. The driver of the truck, an offroad enthusiast named Irene, began to follow him as he pulled onto the ramp to the main highway. Most of the highway was elevated about four stories, and she began to twitch as she thought about it.
         Ahead a few car lengths, in the Cadillac, the man had begun speaking to himself and looking into his rearview mirror almost constantly. Was he being followed? By who? Who could be in such a large truck with such black windows? Was it the government? Were they on to him? He had forgotten to file his tax form for last year. No one had said a word to him about it. The IRS sure did some crazy shit to make sure you paid.
         The man grinned wildly. He'd show the god-damned IRS and their attorneys and their fancy cars and their jumbo jets who was boss. He was Norman Burke, tax evader, and today he'd earn the title of truck evader too. Whatever huge cocksucker was driving that truck could bleed. The massive steroidal prick. The adrenaline junkie. Redneck, white trash, doublewide cowboys had no chance against Norman Burke. All of this he said out loud, all the while watching the truck speed up and approach the driver's side.
         He made sure that his door was locked and that his window was completely rolled up. Their double agents and gas grenades couldn't reach him now. But wait... what if they had a locksmith? Some guy with a slimjim could reach out of the door of the truck and jimmy his door lock, leaving him succeptible to attack. He decided to act fast, before they had a chance to assault him.
         Irene saw the old Caddy pulling closer to her truck and decided this was a good time. Her fear of heights was making her cringe, but she knew that she had to be tough about it, at least for a few minutes. She began rolling down her passenger window and put her truck on cruise control. She leaned across, having to unbuckle herself first, and stuck her hand out of the window, extending her third finger and waving it angrily.
         Norman Burke saw this and knew that they were trying to add insult to injury. He'd show em. He'd show em all. They all wanted to pick on him. Always wanted to pick on him and call him names. Even his sisters did it. These fucks never knew when to leave well enough alone, and now this one would pay.
         Irene lifted herself back into the driver's seat, feeling accomplished after pulling such a bold move four stories above the lower streets. She relaxed herself and looked over to see what the Caddy was doing.
         The car was swerving toward her with obvious intent!
         "What the fuck!?" she yelled with disbelief.
         The car slammed mainly into her huge tires, making the truck jerk inward and angle across the road, sending her back right tire over the hood of the Caddy. Norman, shocked to see the truck suddenly running his car over, stomped on his brakes and spun out of control. He managed to spin out of it, ricocheting off of one of the concrete barriers that were bolted to the ground.
         He came to a stop, trying to catch his breath. His mind echoed with so much conspiracy that he forgot to keep in control of his blood pressure. He thought he might be having a heart attack.
         "The bastards", he said, remembering his last heart surgery, "They planted a small explosive in my hea-".
         His sentence was cut short by a bullet hitting him in the throat. He never felt it, as the bullet took his head off completely in an instant. Someone had gotten into the guns again, even after the government had siezed them all and locked them in a cellar the size of an underground football field with 100' ceilings.

         Mack watched the news on a portable TV for about a day before the anchors went insane and killed eachother live before his very eyes. They had literally beaten eachother to death with their fists. He took his medicine, the few boxes he had recieved from Stan, and made sure his family got theirs. He shuddered to think what was going to happen in two weeks when the pills ran out.
         His two little girls laughed and played stickball in the little yard at their summer cabin. He watched and wondered what was wrong with them. Would they be paranoid schizophrenics? Bulemics? Did they have extreme social anxiety?
         What about him and his wife? Were they abusive without medication? Would his little girls grow up fearing him? Maybe he'd drink a lot, or do drugs or worse.
         Mack thought long and hard on this, watching the news channels drop into static one by one. Most just stopped transmitting for whatever reason. People were too busy to make news on the day that everyone went insane.
         Out this far in the middle of nowhere, you couldn't even hear the gunshots. You couldn't see the blood. You didn't see them chasing eachother around, growing more unstable by the second. None of them knew anything about self control. They had never needed it at all. All they had needed was their Dextotrin-B.