Snake Oil
Okay, you know about snake oil right? It means some sort of cure-all remedy, one sold at a high price, and one that doesn't work. It's a scam. It's something people in cheap used suits talk about, walking around with scuffed shoes and overgreased hair, trying to hustle you everywhere in the Federation. It's something you quickly learn to recognize and avoid. Slaver hound testicles, ground furrier beak, spent biomass, rusted shavings, dirt from Athra itself, or even protein delicacies re-branded under a different name. I've seen it all.
I'm telling you, I'm nothing special. I run my own small business, selling street food in New Hueromont. It's good food, you know... bangers and mash with all the sauces you could want. You should stop by sometime. Spent half my savings buying a new cooking cart too, but it was worth it. I make a good living, I live in a pretty meager apartment... I don't want for much.
I also have type 1 diabetes.
Yeah, I found out when I was 13. I was taking a math test when I got pulled out of class, thinking hey this is awesome! No test! Yeah well, I listened to my mother and father sit down with me in the doctor's office while they explained what it meant. I'd have to take medicine every day for the rest of my life, or I'd die. I was terrified when they told me, because believe me... I hated shots. Those jet injectors they use freak me out... shoots the medicine right through your skin. They remind me of guns, and I hate those too.
Life went on as normal, except for having to get my fix every now and then. I had girlfriends, I went through college, I drank until I threw up. Typical childhood, you know? I tried my hand at working for FedMart. Had a cushy job under them, with health insurance too. It was pretty great, at the time, but I couldn't take the office life anymore. I needed to be outdoors. So, I started my own business, like I told you. Except the problem was that I did't have insurance anymore. I could afford the insurance... but I could't afford to
apply for it. Green tape, they call it. It's like red tape, but it costs money to get through. Green money. Federation money.
So one day, this man in a crooked suit missing one button walks up to me. He's got a smile on his face. He orders two bangers, no mash, extra mustard on them. While I'm fixing it, he's staring at me with that pale thin smile of his and beady brown eyes sunken into his head. I hand him the food, and tell him his suit is missing a button.
"I know," he replies casually in this odd voice.
I ask him what his name is, and he tells me his name is Mister Button. I figure that was a jab at my rude comment, or something, so I just shrug it off. He tells me he's a salesman, and I'm thinking... okay, not bad. I'm a salesman too. I sell bangers and mash. He puts his business card on my cart. It says "Button Solutions" on it.
"Call me when you need more," he tells me, then turns and walks away.
I didn't have a clue what the hell he was talking about. He's the one that ordered bangers, not me, and I sure as hell don't need buttons! I told him he's always welcome to come back when
he wants more, and he just laughed like I told him the funniest joke ever. Funny guy, I guess.
So anyways, a couple months later, I still don't have insurance, and my savings are gone. I can't afford more insulin, and I don't have a fucking clue how to get more. I start panicking. I ask my friends, my family, my ex wife. They all tell me I should have kept my job at FedMart. Thanks, real helpful. I call social services, and they tell me they can't help with the application process. Also helpful, right?
True, I could go to the emergency room when I have an attack. I'd get free insulin, and I technically could just pay off the bills with my money... but that's a ridiculous drain on my finances, and I'm not going to walk in like some homeless guy begging for a fix. Anyways, it's at this point that I figure I might as well call some people I haven't tried before. I call my dry cleaner, I call my mechanic, I call my old flame, landlady, even my reclusive Caldari neighbor next door. Nothing. Then I call Mr. Button, and I tell him what's going on. I ask him for a little cash to get me through the month, and that I could pay him back later.
"Meet me on the corner of 501st and Durelante Avenue," and he hangs up.
Well that's creepy. So, without much to lose, I meet him on the street corner. I start to thank him for the loan, and promise him I'd pay him back later. Instead of handing me a wad of cash though, this guy hands me a pack of insulin. Enough for the week. He tells me this one is free... and he can get me more at insured prices. When I try to explain to him that I don't
have insurance, he chuckles and tells me yes I do, with him. This guy should be called Mr. Creeper.
So for the next six months, I'm getting my insulin from him. I pay him about fourty creds a pouch, which is only a little higher than I was paying with FedMart. Life returns to normal, until one day he's not there. I try again the next day, and the day after that, but he never shows up. On the news, I see a report about a major police raid on a Serpentis drug ring operating here in New Hueromont, and I'm thinking... wow. Go green, right? Then I see his face on the holocapture of him being led into a squad car.
That's when I found out he's Serpentis. That's the first time I found out, I promise you. I didn't know before that... but you know what? I don't care. I pay my taxes, I feed the public, I'm a good citizen. I do my part, and I don't cause any trouble. You're thinking Serpentis is bad for me, but guess what? They gave me what I needed at a reasonable price, and didn't ask any questions. They didn't need me to fill out twenty freaking billion forms just to get insurance. I give them money, they give me medicine.
The funny thing is that people call them snakes, because of their name. Serpentis. I get it. Snakes. But here's the shit of it. It's you, Detective. You represent a system that sells real snake oil... not them. You want me to die because I didn't have twenty grand to apply for a business insurance license. Because I couldn't afford to set up my own insurance program, because I happen to run my own fucking business. I can't get personal insurance, because I sell
fucking bangers and fucking mash on the fucking street. I guess I'm too dangerous a corporate entity to get my own goddamn insurance, huh?! Wouldn't want me breaking the system!
Hey, where you going, Detective?!
Hey!
I'M NOT FINISHED!