Robert Sheckley Bad Medicine

Bad Medicine (in Short Science Fiction Collection 028 )

On May 2, 2103, Elwood Caswell walked rapidly down Broadway with a
loaded revolver hidden in his coat pocket. He didn't want to use the
weapon, but feared he might anyhow. This was a justifiable assumption,
for Caswell was a homicidal maniac.

It was a gentle, misty spring day and the air held the smell of rain
and blossoming-dogwood. Caswell gripped the revolver in his sweaty
right hand and tried to think of a single valid reason why he should
not kill a man named Magnessen, who, the other day, had commented on
how well Caswell looked.

What business was it of Magnessen's how he looked? Damned busybodies,
always spoiling things for everybody....

Caswell was a choleric little man with fierce red eyes, bulldog jowls
and ginger-red hair. He was the sort you would expect to find perched
on a detergent box, orating to a crowd of lunching businessmen and
amused students, shouting, "Mars for the Martians, Venus for the
Venusians!"

But in truth, Caswell was uninterested in the deplorable social
conditions of extraterrestrials. He was a jetbus conductor for the New
York Rapid Transit Corporation. He minded his own business. And he was
quite mad.

Fortunately, he knew this at least part of the time, with at least half
of his mind.

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