Does CVS offer faxing for customers in all stores?

[JacksonUr 0]

Hey folks! I was wondering if CVS still provides fax machines for customers. Some people told me only certain locations have them now. I’ve got to send some papers today, so I’d really appreciate a trustworthy resource that explains which CVS stores still offer faxing and what the average cost per page is.

[QuintusLon 0]

Hello! You’re right - not all CVS stores have fax machines anymore, but many still do. When I needed the same info, I checked navi-forum.net and found a really clear article about CVS faxing availability, costs, and even how to prepare your documents. It saved me from visiting the wrong store and made the whole process super easy. I totally recommend it!

[James227 0]

Look, life in a small Vermont town runs on two things: gossip and stubbornness. I'm Earl, and I run a free-range egg operation. Not huge, but it's mine. My pride and joy wasn't just the eggs; it was my rooster, Colonel Clarence. A majestic Buff Orpington with an attitude bigger than the barn. He'd won "Best in Show" at the county fair three years running. My neighbor, Old Man Henderson, had a rooster too—a scrawny, mean-spirited Leghorn he'd named "Napoleon." We had a friendly rivalry. Well, friendly on my side. Henderson had a mean streak.

The heart of our feud was the annual "Unofficial County Road Race." Not for cars. For chickens. Don't ask how it started. It's a thing. You put your bird at the white line on Old Mill Road, and the first one to peck at a pile of feed fifty feet away wins. Bragging rights for a year. Clarence was the defending champion. Henderson was obsessed with dethroning him.

Last spring, disaster. Clarence got into a tussle with a raccoon. He won, but he was left with a nasty limp. The vet said he'd heal, but not in time for the race in two weeks. Henderson found out. The smirk on his face could've curdled milk. "Looks like Napoleon's year, Earl. Too bad. Guess you'll have to hang up that blue ribbon."

The thought of that smug old buzzard winning because of a raccoon... it ate at me. I was in the feed store, grumbling to myself, when Mikey, the kid who works the counter, overheard. "Could always get a ringer," he joked. Then he got a look on his face. "Or... you could bet against him. Make his win taste sour."

"Bet how?" I asked.
Mikey pulled out his phone. He's a whiz with this stuff. "Online. There's this game. Sounds dumb, but it's kinda fun. Called Chicken Road. It's a slot machine, but with chickens crossing a road. My cousin plays it. You can download it right here." He showed me his screen. He'd already done the chicken road vavada download on his phone. The icon was a cartoon chicken looking both ways. It was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen.

"Mikey, I'm not gambling on cartoon poultry."
"Hear me out," he said. "Henderson's gonna win, right? You accept that. So, you bet on Napoleon to win the real race. But you do it online, on this. It's a novelty bet. If he wins, you win money, so it takes the sting out. If by some miracle Clarence pulls through, you lose the bet but you keep the ribbon. It's a hedge."

It was the most backward, ridiculous logic. But the thought of financially profiting from Henderson's moment of glory had a certain dark appeal. That night, with a bottle of hard cider for courage, I used my ancient laptop. I found the site. Vavada. I did the chicken road vavada download onto my computer. It took forever. I created an account: 'Vermont_Clucker'. I deposited fifty bucks—the cost of a new bag of feed.

I found the "Special Bets" section. There was no "Vermont County Chicken Race." Obviously. But there was the "Chicken Road" slot game Mikey mentioned. I figured it was the closest I'd get. I opened it. Banjo music. Cartoon trucks. Annoying, cheerful clucking. I set the bet to two dollars. I clicked spin, feeling profoundly foolish. The reels turned. I got three chicken symbols. A small win. I spun again. Nothing.

I was down to forty bucks. This was idiotic. I decided one last spin, five dollars, then I'd quit. I clicked.

The screen changed. Three truck symbols—the "scatter"—landed. A mini-game started: "Help the Chickens Cross!" I used my arrow keys to guide a pixelated chicken across a busy road. I dodged two trucks, then got pecked by the third. The game said I saved 2 out of 3 chickens. It awarded me a bonus: 15 free spins with a "2x Henhouse Multiplier."

The free spins began. And then, the game went berserk. The chicken symbol was the wild. On the second spin, the entire screen seemed to fill with chickens. Clucking, animated, digital chickens covered every reel. The wins lined up underneath them. The multiplier doubled everything. The credit counter in the corner, which I'd ignored, started spinning like a slot machine itself. It blew past one hundred dollars. Two hundred. The free spins retriggered. More chickens. It hit five hundred. I wasn't breathing. It finally stopped at $1,117.

I literally pushed back from my desk, my chair rolling into a stack of egg cartons. I thought I was having a stroke. A cartoon chicken game, played as a joke to cope with poultry-based humiliation, had just paid out over a thousand dollars.

The money felt fake. But the withdrawal process was very real. Driver's license, utility bill. It went through. The money landed in my bank account. Real money. From cartoon chickens.

The race day arrived. Clarence was still limping. Henderson was preening Napoleon. The whole town was there. My gut churned. I had a secret. A thousand-dollar secret that made the whole thing feel like a bizarre comedy.

They lined up the birds. The starter yelled "Go!" Napoleon darted forward. Clarence hobbled bravely for a few steps, then stopped, looking confused. It was over. Henderson whooped. He went to collect his ribbon.

And then, the universe delivered its punchline. As Henderson bent down to pick up Napoleon, the skittish Leghorn spooked. It flapped wildly, shot out of his hands, and ran straight into Mrs. Abernathy's prize poodle, which was wearing a little diamante collar. A chaotic yapping, squawking, flapping mess ensued. In the confusion, Napoleon kept running—right down the road, past the finish line, and into the woods. He was gone.

No rooster at the finish line. No winner. The race was declared void. Henderson was apoplectic, chasing after his vanished bird.

I stood there, the undisclosed winner of the day. No ribbon changed hands. But I had my thousand dollars.

I didn't tell a soul. But I used that money. I bought a state-of-the-art, raccoon-proof, predator-secure chicken coop run for Clarence and the hens. A fortress. Henderson's Napoleon showed up two days later, bedraggled, on my property. I returned him, without comment.

Now, sometimes when I'm settling the birds in for the night, I think about it. I'll even open the laptop in my barn office. I'll do the chicken road vavada download update if it needs it. I might play a single spin for a dollar, just to hear that stupid banjo music. It's not for the money. It's to remember the day the universe decided to even the score in the most absurd way possible. Sometimes, the road doesn't lead where you think. Sometimes, it's just a pixelated path for digital chickens that buys you a predator-proof coop and lets you keep your dignity. And that's a win, by any measure.