Frank's Milk
Frank pulled the beat-up old Pontiac in front of the Kum & Go store. A large crack in the paint separated the G in almost equal halves, though it didn't mean anything. As the rusting heap came to a screeching halt on the dusty gravel, muffled yelps and something quite like bumping could almost be heard coming from the trunk. There wasn't anyone there to hear anything, though. Frank slammed the driver's door shut behind him and then carried his cowboy boots, one step at a time, towards the swinging entrance and beyond.
The clerk gave the customer newly come in a disinterested nod. Frank walked right past, taking no notice of the clerk, or anything else on his way to the back of the store, where amid frozen goods of all manner and description one fridge carried milk. That was his point of interest. Frank had driven to the store to buy himself some milk. Not just any milk would do, though. Frank was very particular about his lactic purchases. For a while now a national confederation of misguided do-gooders had organized the packing industry such that each milk carton carried the photorealistic likeness of some sexually active pre-teen or other instead of the traditional outlines of mere cows, indescript and nameless. In fairness the sexual activity was at the most presumed. At least until a courtly conviction enacting otherwise into the official public record everyone "had to", at least publicly or to some obscure standard never meaningfully discussed, "act as if" that were the case. What were the case ? Whatever. To be perfectly fair the cowness of the previous outlines was similarily presumed, not like anyone had the idea to put real cow pictures on their milk cartons. With names, perhaps, "Joiana, aged 3 and a half, squirted you this bottle." Nothing like that, god forbid. The transition from presumable cows to presumable fucktoys went as smoothly as any transition ever at the most could hope for, leaving behind no traces excepting, of course, for having "changed the world", albeit imperceptibly, "for the better".
Truthfully speaking the improvement wasn't exactly imperceptible. It was broadly imperceptible, but in detail there were those who very sharply perceived it. Frank, for one, was just such a one. The striking similarity between highschool picture albums and a collection of milk cartons of the novel make, the kind from whose visual real estate the general, abstract cow population was evicted, to make room for more detailed likenesses of more recognizable poultry did not escape him ; and ever since the welcome change he made a point to, after every abduction, drive to the closest convenience store to supply himself with High School Milk, as he privately called it.
Most pre-teens don't know this, but milk makes for excellent enemas. Frank sometimes added molasses, especially for submissive, eager to please girls of darker complexion. He almost never did that for little boys, perhaps a reflection of obsolete biases about intrinsic gender roles and a perceived need for boys to "toughen up" and such memorabilia. In any case the milk container itself, easily squeezed paper, made for an excellent delivery vehicle. In a palpable sense it could be said the ministrations immediately following the convenience store visit marked an improvement in the life of Frank's unwilling and unexpected wards, however brief it might be, and to that degree one can fairly conclude that in fact the pictures helped, at least in somewhat, some desperate kids, somewhere.
Frank much preferred pictures he'd never seen before, and so he spent a while rooting through the fridge. Eventually he had enough, straightened himself, walked one foot right after the other all the way to the counter, paid and went back to his old Pontiac, with the muffled bumps and yelps perhaps coming from the trunk. And then he drove off.
The end.
