Bull in a Sweet Shop

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The sweet shop looked open; all the lights were on, the Coca-Cola fridge burned brightly, the sign said open, but when the man pushed the door, it wouldn't give.  He shook his bald head, why on earth was it closed?  He rattled the handle, pushed and pulled the door but it still didn’t open the bloody thing was locked.  His bulky shoulders almost swallowed his head as he shrugged. He cupped his hands and peered through the glass. There was no one to be seen inside the shop. His watch said it was only 2.30; it was usually open at 2.30. The man looked up and down the arcade for clues to this mystery, but there were no answers. The other shoppers walked past oblivious to the man's pain. He tried the door again just in case it had unlocked itself, but no miracle had happened. There were tears in his eyes now. He hammered the door with his hand, but no one came to open up. He walked away a few steps and then turned back and tried the handle again. 
"Where the hell are you?" He yelled, staring at the empty shop. 
A few passers-by looked at him now. Most ignored the large man in a black jumper assaulting the sweet shop door, but one good Samaritan stopped. 
"You okay mate?" he asked. 
"No! There's no one here. Do you know where they are?”  The Samaritan shook his head. “I need my fix." The bull hammered the door again. 
"Here, have one of mine," the man offered him a packet of cigarettes. 
The bull shook his head and turned his attention to the door. He aimed a slap, then a punch and then a kick, but the door still didn't open. The man took a step back, scrapped his foot on the floor and charged at the door with his shoulder. Glass shattered, wood splintered and the door swung open; the bull was inside.
When the police turned up 12 minutes later, they found the man sitting on the floor sobbing with relief. There was a huge smile showing blackened teeth and lips, and his hand was in the liquorice jar.