Who do I have to kill to get some Pseudoephedrine!?

'Way I'm feeling, don't think I won't use some of my aforementioned skills to get some juice to clear my nose. I actually dreamed I was at the drug store and the pharmacist was a slightly overweight black man in a police uniform admonishing me from behind the counter. I start hollering-up how "this crap over here doesn't work." He walks over, club in hand, and I'm about to be the victim of some social injustice. Then I wake up to a blistered tongue before I get beat down or get any PSE...(that's how you text it, by the way.)

I think the real injustice is that a nice, repectable suburban lady can't get the drugs she so needs in her time of desire. What, you say...Show my license?...Why would I ever volunteer that?...Do you think they keep some kind of database?...Of course I'm kidding...No, you're crazy!...Fine, I'm stupid, just give me what you have there...You know I'm good for it.