The Desperation of the Hillbilly

There is no look more desperate than the look on a Hillbilly's face as he drives into his favorite convenience store in the morning.
It's part fear, part pain, part panic. A haunted, hunted expression.
Today, I was walking across the parking lot of a convenience store when I saw the first wave of hillbillies. A convoy of beat-up trucks, SUVs, and vans belched into the parking lot. (If you incarcerated half of the drug-addled and drink-embalmed hillbillies, you would have carbon offsets to displace a decent industrial province in China. But, that's another post.)
I was nearly run over twice, but, I managed to make it to my vehicle for the second half of the parade.
Junker after junker zoomed in, catapulted into a parking space (or two), and, just when you thought for sure they were going to crash through glass doors, screeched to a halt.
I didn't feel safe enough to venture back across the lot to find out what the object of such an important mission could be, so I waited for them to exit the store.
Surely, it must be some kind of medicine. Maybe something for their offspring? Some sustenance so important that time was of the very essence.
No...
Coffee.
Carton of cigarettes.
Snuff.
These people were risking their lives (and mine) for this?
Next year, since we can't afford trips to Spain, as we're all working too hard to keep hillbillies in cigarettes and coffee, you're invited to the first ever Running of the Hillbillies, where you can test your manhood running across the store parking lot in the face of rampaging hillbillies.
Ah. Where's Hemingway when you need him.