The Tale of Percules

No one knows where Percules came from.

Some say he arrived one summer, bent at the waist, sweating through a thermal long sleeve in 92-degree heat,
searching for Yoo-hoo in a can like it was his own personal Fountain of Youth.

Others swear he’s always been here—just part of the neighborhood’s biome:
rats, roaches, and the broken glass scattered down W. Cross St.

But everyone agrees on one thing:

There’s something magical about him.
Something you can’t look away from.

He’s seen in flashes.
He speaks in fragments that feel like prophecies.
And then he’s gone—riding off into the sunset like the hero he thinks he is.

It was a humid afternoon in Southwest Baltimore.
The kind where the sky glows orange for no reason,
and the air tastes like hot pennies and menthols.

Inside the 300 sq. ft. of the corner store, time moved sideways.

Then came Percules.

His presence hit like the sound of fine china breaking at a funeral.
His legs were swollen, one wrapped in mystery gauze. He was out of breath,
looking somewhere between stunned and confused—
like he’d just fought a battle no one would ever understand.

"Y’ALL AIN’T GOT YOO-HOO IN A CAN?"

Silence.

"Y’ALL AIN’T GOT YOO-HOO IN A CAN?"

Still silence.

"Y’ALL AIN’T GOT YOO-HOO IN A CAN??"

He slurred louder—still not really speaking to anyone.

He made his way to the counter, clutching:

- one bottle of water
- one half-pint of chocolate milk
- one half-pint of full-fat Vitamin D milk

His sacred trinity.

The cashier stared off into the distance—somewhere between enlightenment and existential collapse.

Percules pulled out a few crusty bills and slid them into the
rotating transaction tray with the slow reverence of a man offering tribute to a forgotten god.

Most people would’ve left then.
But not Percules. He needed to refuel.

He cracked the bottle of milk.
Tilted it back.
Slammed it in 10 seconds flat.

Then he hunched over, cradled his gut, and let out a groan that shook the store.

He locked eyes with the next guy in line.

"Sorry bro... I’m ’bout to go pass out outside."

And with that—he turned, stepped into the light,
mounted his bicycle like it was a warhorse,
and blazed down the street at lightning speed.

To this day, no one knows where he went.

But some say—
on quiet nights,
when the city feels still—
you can still hear him, just a block away:

"Y’all really ain’t got Yoo-hoo in a can...?"