#i looked at a lot o 19th c patent medicine bottle labels for this

[spider-costello]

Yeehawgust: Snake Oil

[[yes i know thats not todays prompt, its yesterdays but look i forgot yesterday and im writing abt a literal dr i HAVE to do ‘snake oil’]]

“...Guaranteed to cure what ails ya! Yessirree, Abernathy’s Miracle Tincture cures coughs, sore throats, flux, skin complaints, dyspepsia, and has even been known to help with a lady’s time of the month!”

The doctor, hearing the well-practiced tone of a salesman, paused and looked around, eyes narrowed behind their mask. The cowhand, not noticing the doctor had stopped, continued walking for several feet before noticing the doctor was no longer beside them.

“Eh? Doc, where’d ya...” They turned in time to see the doctor heading down an alleyway and hurried after them. “Doc, wait up! What is it?”

“Unless my ears deceive me, I hear a Fraud occuring.”

On the other side of the alley, they found a man standing on a box alongside a covered wagon. The man beamed and waved at the small crowd standing around him, then swept a hand at the side of his wagon. The canvas cover was painted with a lurid sign proclaiming it to be the sole source of “Abernathy’s MIRACLE TINCTURE! All-Natural ingredients GUARANTEED to cure most bodily ills!” The salesman laid a hand over his heart, his expression turning mournful. His impeccably waxed mustache drooped as his mouth turned down at the corners.

“I speak from experience, gentle listeners,” he said in lugubrious tones of misery and heartache, “when I say that I owe my very life to this tonic! Oh, you should have seen me! Never a wretch more miserable walked the earth than I! Beset by the foulest humours, weaker than a newborn kitten, unable to take more than the most meager gruel and water, unable to take a breath, my skin spotted like a flea-bitten dog’s! One day, thinking I could no longer stand to live in such misery, I turned to my father’s apothecary shop and most desperately combined as many herbs as I thought would finally end my suffering.” Here he paused to wipe away a tear the doctor doubted existed. Then his expression brightened. “But lo and behold, gentle listeners! My life did not end, but my health returned! Within mere days I was growing strong and healthy! All thanks to this very elixir I hold in my hand!”

He held up a green bottle bearing the same logo as the wagon. The liquid within was thick and glutinous. The salesman, presumably the Abernathy of the sign, pressed the bottle to his chest like a mother with her infant. “I knew I could not keep such a miracle to myself. So I took to the road, and now travel from town to town, offering my humble concoction to any and all who wish to avail themselves of its wonders.”

The doctor crossed their arms. “Rubbish,” they growled. “Can’t be anything more than blackstrap molasses and water at best, the way it moves.” No one else in the crowd seemed to doubt the man, however, for they began forming a queue to buy a bottle. The doctor understood their desperation; out here, it was hard to find good medicines, and while the crows did their best to go wherever they were needed, there were only so many of them. Often as not, people had to make do with whatever they had. But for someone to take advantage of that desperation struck the doctor as more than cruel.

“You gonna do anything?” the cowhand asked. “People listen to crows. If you tell ‘em he’s fulla shit, they’ll run him outta town on a rail.”

The doctor didn’t reply, but stepped out of the alley’s shadow. “What’s in that stuff, then?” they called. “As a doctor, I’d dearly love to know what makes it so effective, so that I can begin offering it to my patients.”

A muttering went through the crowd, and the rush to join the line slowed. The cowhand was right; they wanted to hear what the crow thought. Abernathy looked somewhat nervously at the ones who’d backed away.

“Well, now, I can’t go sharing my recipe with anyone who asks,” he said. “Suppose you’re not a real crow, and I tell a competitor my secrets! After all, you don’t look like a crow, aside from your mask, which you may have acquired illicitly.”

“Oh, I’m a real crow, all right.” The doctor lifted aside their duster to show their tool-belt. “And I earned my mask the way we all do, through exhaustive training and study and work. Every one of us is an apothecary in our own right, not just those of us who choose to specialize in it. If your tincture really works, then surely you have nothing to fear from sharing the recipe with me. I will endorse it wherever I go, provided it’s legitimate.” They lowered their head slightly. “If it’s not, well. I’ll have to see that you never do business again.”

Abernathy looked very nervous now. “I’m sorry, but I shan’t take that risk. I know how doctors work, they think they have all the answers and that we laymen are mere ignorant asses grubbing in the dark!”

“Doc, heads up.” The cowhand, while Abernathy was distracted, had snuck around the crowd and gotten up to the back of the wagon. They tossed a bottle to the doctor.

Heedless of Abernathy’s indignant cries, the doctor uncorked the bottle and held it near one of their mask’s vents. An eye-watering scent of anise reached their nose. They corked the bottle and turned it around, allowing them to see the ingredients listed on the back.

“Molasses, glycerin, syrup of ipecac, cannabis sativa... oh, and laudanum for good measure. ‘Skillfully blended with other minor ingredients.’ Skillfully, hm. ‘Anise for flavor.’ Well.” The doctor looked up at Abernathy. “The most this will do is give any unfortunate person diarrhea, nausea, and a laudanum addiction. None of these will cure anything.”

“Now, now, doctor, some of the ingredients in there have been taken as remedies the world over--”

“Yes, and we used to believe that putting someone in red clothing would cure smallpox.” The doctor lobbed the bottle at Abernathy, who nearly fumbled it, his face turning crimson. The doctor then looked around at the crowd. “I understand your need for reliable medicine. I know how painful it is to see your loved ones suffer and know that help is far away, or too expensive, or otherwise out of your reach. But trust me when I say that this man is a liar and a cheat. There is nothing in here that will do any good for anyone. Trust me.” They pointed to their mask. “Trust my mask. Don’t waste your money on con men.”

The crowd looked at the doctor, then at Abernathy.

“There anything good in there?” one man asked.

“No. Drinking this won’t do a thing for you.”

Gradually, the crowd began to disperse, several casting dark looks at Abernathy, who had completely deflated. There was no arguing medicine with a  crow, he knew; their knowledge was too widely trusted. A few lingered, seemingly willing to take their chances, but they were gently pulled away by friends or family members. Eventually everyone had gone. Abernathy gave the doctor a dark look.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he snapped. “They’re all--”

“Spared from taking your foul muck.” The doctor meaningfully lowered the barrel of their rifle into their other hand, clearly ready to raise it at a moment’s notice. “If I ever catch you peddling this garbage again, I’ll cripple you. I’ve had to treat too many people poisoned by men like you. I’ll be warning the order about you, as well. We’ll see to it that you’re out of business for good.”

Abernathy looked at their rifle, then away. The doctor eyed him a moment longer, then nodded to the cowhand, who jumped out of the wagon and came over. They both turned their backs on Abernathy and headed back the way they’d come.