Dude learns a Trade

[Steven Hunley]

Dude learns a Trade

by

Steven Hunley



When Old Man got down with something he got sick with it. ‬At the first lesson he piled a stack of books on the table. ‬Dude could tell from looking at their spines they were all about the same thing, ‬magic.

“You gonna give me magic lessons?”

“That’‬s exactly what I’‬m going to give you,”‬ the old man returned,“‬You’‬re going to find out how to make things appear and disappear, ‬especially disappear.”

Two days later, ‬and three books into it, ‬Dude had an idea of what he was talking about when the old man said,

“The thing is with customs, if they really want to search, and know what they’re looking for, they’re going to find it. But so much stuff comes through they only check one out of ten packages, if that. And they can be distracted. By what?”

Dude took his cue. ‬He had been doing his homework.

“By light or sound, or movement.”

“Right.”

“Or by a beautiful assistant in a scanty costume.”

“I don’‬t think we can supply that, ‬but yes, ‬a pretty girl can supply all three, ‬certainly. ‬But never hide the stuff on them. ‬Some smugglers do, ‬they call the girls mules, ‬but I was never into that. ‬Besides, ‬because so many girls have been used that way they’‬re a bust if they’‬re holding anything, ‬so that’‬s out. ‬You can trust yourself, ‬but how do you know if a girl can work under pressure?‬ You don’‬t, ‬unless you know her real well. ‬It’‬s hard to simulate or even imagine the pressure a customs officer can give when you’‬re under his gun."

“Girls are out then.”

“They were never in. ‬The point is to be prepared and confident and rely on yourself. ‬And here’‬s another thing, ‬when they open the bag, ‬don’‬t let your nerves show. ‬They check inside for the usual places a suitcase provides, ‬false bottoms and such. ‬They’‬ll run their hands over the contents, ‬but if you look at their eyes,‬ you’‬ll see they aren’‬t looking at what they’‬re doing with their hands.”

“Then what are they looking at?”

“They’‬re looking at you for a tell, ‬like in poker.”

“I don’‬t play poker.”

"It's like poker but more serious. ‬If you value your freedom the stakes are higher. ‬This isn’‬t a Las Vegas game where you lose only money.‬ One mistake could cost you years in a South American stink hole like Papillion. ‬They’‬re running their hands over the contents, ‬like a Geiger counter looking for radiation, ‬but the needle they’‬re watching is your eyes, ‬get me?”

“I think so, ‬yeah.”

“Don’‬t worry, ‬we’‬ll practice.”

So practice they ‬did, ‬using suitcases and containers of all sorts.‬The penalty for losing was losing a meal. ‬Before he learned how Dude lost ten pounds. ‬That’‬s when he got serious.‬Dude would hide and the old man would search until Dude finally learned to put on his game face.
A week later Dude had studied and had done his homework, ‬and he’‬d been thinking about the scam a lot. ‬He had questions, ‬lots of questions.

“What about the smell? I hear they have dogs now that can smell everything. What about them? And if we can cover the smell and they can’t see it because we hide it real good, what if they use X rays? I hear they use X rays. What about X rays?”

“Now you’‬re thinking like a contrabandisto. ‬This weekend I have to take a break. ‬But you need to learn something new anyway so tomorrow wear some old clothes you don’‬t mind getting dirty, ‬we’‬ll be going to the beach.”

“You mean flip-flops and old shorts and sun-block?”

“No, long pants, surfer boy, it will be messy."

Dude couldn’‬t figure what he meant; ‬if it was the beach then why long pants? ‬But he showed up in long pants anyway the next day when they drove to Mission beach and parked out in front of a surf-board shop two blocks from Belmont Park on Mission Boulevard.

“We’re going to surf?”

“No, ‬you’‬re going to learn.”

When they went through the door, ‬instead of admiring the boards in the showroom they went all the way through the shop to out back. ‬A man was working there shaping blanks with a sure-form. ‬He smiled as they walked up and looked at Dude.

“This him?”

Yeah,” said Old Man.“This is him. Dude, this is Bob. I've known him since third grade. He makes boards.”

That’‬s all he said as he walked away, ‬but,

“I’ll see you two after lunch. Want smoothies?”

“Of course we want smoothies,”‬ said Bob,“‬this is Mission beach ain’‬t it?”

He had a point.‬They were only two blocks from the roller coaster and out the door to the west you could see the waves breaking if you stood on your toes to look over the seawall.

Dude learned all about resin. How to mix it, how to spread it, color it, and the smell of the acetone it took to wash it free of your brush. It was a crash-course in fiberglass and resin. Dude couldn’t figure what good a surf board would do him where he was going. Hell, he couldn’t even swim.

Then there was the molds. ‬One afternoon Dude and Old Man took a break. ‬They broke out a couple of Stella Artois and were sitting around the table finishing off a roach. ‬Dude noticed something different on the table he’‬d never seen before. ‬It was a wooden statue of a man about eight inches high. ‬He picked it up. Old man was planning again.

“That’s a figure from Tiahuanaco, up by the lake. It’s one of the oldest statues on the continent, pre-Inca in fact. Most of the other stuff around the house is Incan in design.”

“Lake Titicaca?”

“That’‬s the one. ‬It’‬s huge, ‬runs for over a hundred miles,‬on the border bewteen Peru and Boliva. ‬You’‬ll see it from the plane.”

“In Bolivia?‬ A plane?”

“That’‬s where ‬you’‬re going. ‬Oh, ‬I almost forgot, ‬here’‬s a book to take along.”

He shoved his way a copy the South American Handbook.

“It’s the only travel book that’s updated every year. That’ll be important. It’s small and easy to pack. Especially where you’re going, beyond electricity. And this,” he said picking up the statue. “Is for your molds.”

“Molds?”

“Two of them.‬Come on.”

They walked back in to the workroom. ‬On the bench were two trapezoid shaped blocks of resin. ‬They didn’‬t look pretty and were as dull and blank as bookends.

“They need faces, these faces, so you’re going to learn how to make a mold. It would really help out if they had faces. It makes ‘em look like cheap souvenirs. That’s what they’re going to look like alright, cheesy-cheap souvenirs.

These blocks will be where you stash it. Then after it’s inside you fill it up with resin. After the resin hardens not even smell can get through. We’ll test it tomorrow, now that they’ve got faces.”

By now Dude was tired anyway. ‬Doing the molds had taken some time. ‬They wanted Japanese take-out for dinner. ‬They had enough money because Dude had a coupon. ‬The way Old Man figured it, ‬every ten dollars they saved was worth one hundred when Dude got back with the load. ‬So Japanese take-out with a coupon was what it would be.

But Dude thought he’‬d found a problem. ‬There was something the old man hadn’t figured on. ‬He remembered it when he woke up one morning just as the sun was coming up. ‬He dressed,splashed some water on his face and went across the alley. ‬A car was parked in front of Old man’‬s house. ‬A girl with brown curly hair dressed in scrubs came out. ‬Maybe she pulled teeth, ‬or helped someone who did. ‬She said hello to him as they passed as if she knew him.

“Who was that?”

“That’‬s Nancy.”

“A nurse?”

“Not exactly, ‬though she works in a hospital.”

“Oh.”‬

Old man seemed to be tight-lipped again.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“We forgot something about the blocks.”

“Yes?”

“X-rays can see right through them.”

“You mean they ‬could see right through them. Come in here.”

He followed him into the work room. ‬The blocks with statue faces were blue now, ‬a kind of a royal blue. ‬And they sparkled, ‬how they sparkled.

Kind of like Candy Apple Red but blue. ‬Then Dude thought he had the old man again when he read the sparkle ingredients. ‬They were tiny aluminum flakes.

“Good try Old Man but no cigar. These are aluminum flakes, they won’t do the trick.”

“What are these here?”‬ the old man asked, ‬pointing to some crescent-shaped objects on the floor. ‬Dude knew he’‬d seen them somewhere before and picked one up. ‬It was a tire weight for balancing tires.

“This is heavy. It’s a lead tire weight.”

“It’‬s soft, ‬grinds up easily and can’‬t be X rayed. It blends in just right with the sparkle."

“Does it work?”

“Looks like it. ‬See here.”

He pulled a large negative out of an eight by ten envelope and held it up to the window. ‬It was the outline of the blocks Dude saw, ‬but within? ‬One hell of an amount of fuzz, ‬pure fuzzyness and that was all.

Dude put one and one together and got two. ‬It was the girl he’‬d just seen in the scrubs. ‬She wasn’‬t a dental assistant. ‬She was an X ray tech. ‬Old Man had been around the block and had done his homework at a hospital. ‬Probably done it ever since third grade or whenever they first handed out the stuff and spoiled every student’‬s free time, ‬from the beginning I guess.

After Dude learned resin, ‬and after he knew how ‬to hide, ‬he still had more to go. ‬There were Spanish lessons to practice, ‬which usually took place in Tijuana, ‬that town just south of the border. ‬If you had to be in a classroom then Tijuana was it. ‬In TJ Dude polished his high-school Spanish.

They drew up a check-list and then travel arrangements. Varig was how he would make the first leg of the trip; it was the most comfortable and the national airlines of Brazil. Varig from LA to Lima, Lloyd Aereo Boliviano from there.

The night before he left he ‬could hardly sleep. ‬To be truthful, ‬he couldn’‬t sleep at all.
Anxiety was no stranger to Dude. ‬And this night, on the eve of traveling all alone, ‬to an unfamiliar place, ‬where he knew absolutely no one, ‬to do something totally illegal, ‬that he’‬d never done, ‬well…‬ it just made him think a little too much for good sleeping. ‬Maybe tossing and turning would be better. ‬He could handle tossing and turning so that’‬s what he did. ‬Tomorrow he’‬d probably do something else.
Like throwing up.

Flying Down to Lima

It’‬s so much fun. ‬There’‬s nothing like it. ‬Dude is so keyed up he barfs the whole way down. ‬Nine hours of continual barfing are required.‬So he does it. ‬Then, ‬when he’‬s at his weakest, ‬and his stomach turned inside out, ‬he barely has the strength to press his head up to the cold cabin window to cop some cool. ‬Dude needs relief from nerve-fever. ‬With effort his eyelids open and he sees below the night sea crawling with ‬waves of sparkling obsidian arrowheads pointing towards a new continent.

Pizzaro had nothing on Dude.

Suddenly the black begins to fade to dark blue defining the horizon. ‬Then a brown coast appears, ‬running away to left and right, north and south, ‬at breakneck speed, ‬till it disappears into distant blue mist. ‬He will, in fifteen minutes, land in a place where he must live his life at a run. ‬And he has done this insane thing by choice.

What was wrong with Dude anyway, has he lost his mind?

Lima is only a stop on the way. ‬He doesn't even go through customs or immigration. ‬They have prepared a special room just for him. ‬In it is a leather couch like the kind you see in movies in the offices of psychiatrist. ‬But the doctor won’‬t be here. ‬Instead, ‬a flight attendant gives Dude what he needs. ‬On her light brown palm lies a capsule with little dots inside. ‬She smiles at him using blue-green eyes, ‬small white-perfect teeth and red cupie-doll lips.

“What’‬s this?”

“Compazine.”

I guess it’‬s the same in English or Spanish.

Either way it makes him sleepy.

Right when it gets quiet and Dude gets comfortable, ‬two flight attendants appear wearing Aereo Boliviano uniforms. ‬They escort him out, ‬up the ramp, ‬and into the plane. ‬He barfs his way to La Paz, ‬which he can’‬t quite remember, ‬then wretches past Cochabamba, ‬which remains a blur, ‬and finally sees out ‬the cabin window a tree-topped land with silver ribbon rivers winding through. ‬It’‬s Santa Cruz. ‬When he lands and is walking across the tarmac, ‬an insect the size of his hand lands on the lapel of his coat because it smells like papaya. ‬It’‬s not.

Welcome to the tropics.

He rides in an open Isuzu taxi, ‬but finds his hotel is full.‬The driver, ‬to start the engine, ‬touches a piece of speaker wire to a battery that lies between his feet on the floor.‬The other pole is grounded onto the floor. ‬The sky darkens. ‬To another hotel he goes. ‬The sky darkens further. ‬On the way it starts to rain. ‬Thunder booms. ‬Dude ends up in a room face down on a bed. ‬The only thing that happens all night is pouring rain,‬thundering thunder, and ‬lightning flashing so close it ‬lights up his room, ‬plus the smell of ozone invading the air. ‬Dude would be afraid but no, ‬he is far too compazine-tranquillo to care.

The next day it’s sunny and bright, and leaves him feeling like yesterday wasn’t quite right. That’s why flying down to Lima was so much fun. It’s the first leg to so much more.

He eats an omelet with ham for breakfast because he has memorized the phrase “‬omelet con jamon”‬ in preparation for this event. ‬He eats it late. ‬He grabs a cab into town. ‬The driver drops him off in the main plaza. ‬It’‬s one o’‬clock by now. ‬There’‬s nobody there. ‬His hopes for an easy score are dashed.
“Where are the gringos? Where’s the people?” he asks the only man there selling ice cream to nobody.

“Later,”‬ he answers.

He returns to the hotel, depressed. The air is thick with heat. Nothing is familiar. This place is no good. Dude thinks,

“I have made a wrong choice in this matter.”

Dude waits for the cool of night. ‬In the blackness which envelopes the countryside he catches yet another cab to return to town. ‬He eats at a Chinese restaurant, ‬dinner. ‬Exactly twenty minutes later he decides he's hungry again and heads back to the plaza for ice cream and hears noise when he turns the last corner where the unexpected lies in wait.

There are dozens, ‬scores,‬hundreds of people there now. ‬It is as packed as Disneyland on Date-Night. ‬He breathes in the cool air now perfumed with the scent of lovely Crucenos. ‬He even sees some young people who, ‬by the way they dress, ‬may be possible connections. ‬Dude takes heart. ‬He joins the crowd and tries to catch up.

‬Like I said, ‬welcome to the tropics.

‬Dude has finally arrived at his destination and is eagerly prepared to suffer his fate.

©Steven Hunley 2011

[Delta40]

Man I can't help but think Dude is you! You're definitely THE top short story writer on Lit-Net but I was disappointed with the end and feel there HAS to be another instalment on its way. Please say there is!

[Steven Hunley]

The Frontier of the Eastern Cordillera

The crowd he wanted to catch up to was defined by the tee-shirts they wore. ‬The words on the tee-shirts were written in English. ‬A girl with curly brown hair and enormous breasts filled out her tee-shirt nicely. ‬On it was Snoopy, ‬dressed as a pilot, ‬wearing his leather WW1 ‬flying helmet, probably ‬singing On Top ‬of Old Doghouse. ‬Actually, ‬considering the dimensions her breasts were adding to the scene, ‬is was a regular three-D experience. ‬It fit her so well in more ways than one, ‬as she was usually flying herself, ‬if you know what I mean. ‬Charles Schultz would ‬have loved her.

The guys walking with her turned out to be from Mozambique, ‬as was the girl. ‬The Trio had obtained their airfare by selling two elephant tusks they stole from their uncle’s game preserve. ‬That got them as far as Brazil, ‬which was good, ‬as both countries speak Portuguese. ‬Now they were down to traveling on foot or by bus, ‬trying to sell the skin of a fifteen-foot python they’‬d got the same place. ‬But no one would buy it, ‬probably because some idiot had died it red.

Besides, there were plenty of pythons in the neighborhood.

Then there‬ was Steve,‬ a French-Canadian. ‬Dude introduced himself and was instantly accepted in their group because he shared something in common with them.‬They all spoke English.

They did what everybody else did for an hour,which was walk around the plaza.‬Then Canadian Steve said the magic words,

“Wanna ‬smoke a joint?”

The Northern Guy de Canada wanted to share some‬ tasty smoke and the game was on.

They left the plaza and crossed by the church, ‬went around the corner and down one block.

In a darkened colonnade Steve found an even darker doorway and they all disappeared into it one by one. ‬Nothing like going into a dark spooky place in an unfamiliar country to smoke some you-don't-know-what with you-don’t-know-who.

The room was long and thin, ‬and except for a single bare light bulb hanging from a cord two feet the ceiling, ‬empty. ‬There were two mattresses on the floor. On one of them lay a man reading a paperback.

“Hugo,” said Steve, “Look what the dust man turned up, an American.”

The man looked up from the book. ‬His eyes were brown and clear, ‬he was bearded and resembled Che Guevara but without the beret.
He got up.

“I’m Hugo,” he said and put out his hand.

Dude shook it. ‬He had a strong grip. ‬If he had as good a grip on reality as he did Dude’‬s hand he was a man of power.

“I’m Robert, but you can call me Dude‬. Everybody else does.”

Between these two it would be the truth from square one.

They smoked with the others, ‬but after an hour or so the rest drifted off, ‬probably because the smoke had run out, ‬leaving the two ‬alone.

The talk turned to serious matters.

The similarities between the two of their lives began to stack up when they started comparing notes. ‬They were both the same age it turned out, ‬and both had lost their families when they were young. ‬Both were seeking the ultimate reality,‬trying to find it from different views, admitting ‬ it was all “‬Roshamon”‬ anyway.

The agreed that life was a hard road, ‬for both of them a very hard road.

The next day when Dude woke up he started doing the math.

It looked as if, with a ten-time mark up, ‬he might actually have the change he needed.‬ For once in his life he might be ‘in the pocket.’

‬He grabbed a cab back to town and found Canadian Steve and accompanied him for breakfast.

“I’ll show you where to get good empanadas.”

They stopped at a café on the corner. ‬The empanadas were fresh and had vegetables and meat filling. ‬They cost about a quarter.

“Why so cheap?”‬ Dude asked.

“It’s a poor country. The average per capita income is two hundred seventy-five dollars per year.”

Dude choked.

“Average?”

“Yes, ‬average. ‬I imagine ‬that for the majority of people, ‬it’‬s a lot less.”

“Sh*t, this place makes Mexico look rich."

Dude could only shake his head. ‬They bummed around town, ‬and Dude found a nail in his boot. ‬A cobbler removed it for one peso, ‬about a nickel. ‬He couldn’‬t figure out how anyone made a living. ‬The whole setup seemed a bit surreal.‬The blazing sun was unrelenting so they kept to the shade of the roofed walkways. Small green cactuses grew between the chinks of the rust-colored Spanish-tile roofs. ‬Dude accidentally kicked a piece of gravel in through an open door of a bar. ‬It rolled in and stopped in the middle of the floor.

Dude had always wanted to visit a frontier town, ever since he’d visited Frontier Land in Disneyland. Here it was without the popcorn or Tinkerbell or Mickey Mouse. It had all the markings of that old Cream song Brave Ulysses. It was the ‘Violent South of Sun’ for reals. Yes, for reals. Sometimes Dude wished he had Jack Bruce’s voice.

“All it needs is a sheriff and a deputy,” thought Dude.

Dude would get his way. Inside the bar was the DEA.

http://youtu.be/u8hLc_nqx8g


©StevenHunley2011

*

[Delta40]

Steve I really adore the rich flavour of a culture I know nothing about in this story. Every detail has served a great purpose and only added to the quality of it. Dyed pythons? wow! I'm not sure what to make of dude but the story itself looks like it will build up into one heck of a piece and I see endless potential for its outcome.

This is a killer line: In a darkened colonnade Steve found an even darker doorway and they all disappeared into it one by one. ‬Nothing like going into a dark spooky place in an unfamiliar country to smoke some you-don't-know-what with you-don’t-know-who.

You say so much in such a creative way and I'm looking forward to reading more!

[Steven Hunley]

DEA
The bar was pretty nice, ‬but not too nice. ‬The bar itself was long and carved of mahogany, ‬a rich red color, ‬almost, ‬which was good and matched the blood that was sometimes spilled on it. ‬The mirror behind it was a beveled mirror, yellow-stained on the edges ‬from constant tobacco smoked within. ‬On one side was a chip where a glass thrown by one of its patrons had missed its mark, ‬another patron’‬s head, ‬and hit it instead. ‬A typical bar in Santa Cruz it was.

Two gringos sat at a table in back. ‬Although the bar was crowded with men they sat alone, ‬shunned by the rest. ‬It was easy to figure out why if you knew the two. ‬That’‬s why the other men avoided them with ease. ‬They knew the two.

Lenny, ‬the taller one was still not tall, ‬had a lump on his head that ‬would never go down, ‬and slobber constantly hanging from his lower lip. ‬That didn’‬t bother him one bit.

The other one, ‬Phil, ‬was fat, ‬sweaty at all times, ‬had more chins than a Chinese telephone book, ‬rumpled pants and coat, ‬and carried a cane made of cane. ‬Why? ‬As he later put it, “‬Just for fun.”

They were both drinking the cheapest beer available, ‬which in Bolivia was pretty cheap. ‬Even the other men,‬ workingmen, ‬who traded their sweat for Pesos Bolivianos working on the oil rigs that doted the outskirts of town, ‬drank better beer than they did, ‬though they could hardly afford it. ‬For this reason they were shunned, ‬and for another reason as well.

‬They were DEA.

Assigned there by the US state department they were supposed to be undercover. ‬Being Lenny and Phil they had managed to keep their cover for all of two weeks. ‬Of that fact they had taken no notice. ‬And even if they had known they wouldn’‬t have cared. ‬They were getting paid well, ‬extremely well considering the rate of exchange, ‬and in their leisure moments, which were many, ‬divided up their time neatly between the bar and the whore-house down the street.

“Life is good to us,” Lenny slobbered to Phil.

“Yes,” Phil sweated back, “life is good.”

They made a few busts occasionally when needed or ‬required, ‬not by detective work, ‬which was beyond their abilities, ‬but through the work of low-life informants. ‬This method gave them more time to invest in their drinking and whores. ‬When they finished their cheap beers they made their way through the door for the walk down to Esmeralda’‬s establishment.

On the way, ‬crossing an intersection, ‬the traffic blocked their way. ‬A small buff-colored donkey pulling a cart stopped right in front of them. ‬The driver was small too.

“Move this donkey,” said Phil to its driver, “or I’ll move it for you!”

He couldn’‬t, ‬the traffic wouldn't allow it. ‬There was nowhere to go.

Phil tapped his cane on the donkey’‬s buff rump and knocked off some dust.

“Come on, just move it!”

He hit harder and the donkey let out a bray. ‬Another hit even harder followed. Phil's face flushed with effort.

“Move it I said, move it!”

At this the donkey sat down. Phil went ballistic and started hitting the animal with so much ferocity the cane split into sharp sections ‬When the driver got between him and the animal, ‬and caught the cane with his hands, Phil exploded. ‬He pushed the driver aside, ‬and began to whip the mule mercilessly, ‬over and over. ‬The cane started to splinter just as the mule broke free of its ‬halter, ‬and ran down the street pursued by the driver. ‬A crowd formed and drew the attention of a cop. ‬After the driver caught the mule and returned, ‬accusations were made. ‬Money was spread all around. ‬That’‬s how they took care of it. ‬That’‬s how they ‬always took care of things, ‬Phil and Lenny, ‬by spreading American green-backs around.

“You’re crazy Phil, just crazy!”

“Whooda Hell do you think you are? ‬Some kind of psychiatrist? ‬Some kind of Sigmund Somebody?”

“Well maybe that’‬s what you need, ‬some kind of psychiatrist.”

“Whores or mules, ‬what difference does it make? ‬The’‬re all the same to me ‬Let’‬s go. ‬Vamanos.”

Fortunately for them Esmeralda’‬s was only a block away and they made it there in safety. ‬Sometimes they were just lucky.

The women that worked in Esmeralda’‬s ‬were lucky too. ‬Phil had already broken his cane and wouldn’‬t be able to replace it until the next morning. ‬It was true. ‬When he was in top form he could be a cruel dude. ‬Still, ‬he paid them well for their lacerations with his filthy cash. ‬He was generous in this respect. ‬But it was getting harder and harder to find girls that liked that sort of thing. ‬Many, ‬who thought they did at first or did it because they were strapped for cash, ‬and I ‬do mean strapped for cash, ‬had consented to such inhumane treatment. ‬But by now their backs and legs and bottoms were sore and needed time to heal.

‬The broken cane, splintered in sharp-cutting pieces, lying on the street where the donkey had lain, provided them the precious time they needed.

‬Poor putas, ‬poor burro…‬ but Phil was poorer yet.

[Delta40]

Wow! I'm losing who the good guys are and who the bad guys are! I'm expecting a mighty twist along the line. I'm sorry I haven't reviewed this earlier but I've been so ill. Get the next instalment out soon! I'm posting this in the my favourite short stories thread before it's even finished!

[Steven Hunley]

I'm just going to cover the South American sequence of the book so here goes:

The Score

Eventually the day changed to afternoon and the afternoon to evening. Dude went back to the hotel and took a nap. When night suddenly fell as it does in the tropics the forest came alive with the sound of a million tree frogs advertising for mates. He woke up and grabbed a cab back to the plaza then headed to the slim room down from the church. It was nearly ten o’clock and he had an appointment to keep.

Hugo was already there waiting. Dude handed him the money.

“I’ll be back.”

The only things in the room now were the bare bulb, the two mattresses, the cricket and Dude. He would have watched television but there was no television. He could have listened to the radio but there was no radio. Maybe he should have read the newspaper, but he couldn’t do that either. You know why.

An hour went by. The time was as still as the hot tropical air.

“I’m sitting in an empty room in a foreign country and a stranger has all of my money.”

More time passed.

He stepped over the cricket and gently picked him up. The cricket didn’t resist or try to escape even when he opened his hand. He stared at the fragile insect in his palm.

“A stranger is holding my cash, and I’m holding a cricket. What kind of an *ssh*le am I anyway?”

He said the last bit aloud.

“Perhaps a very rich *ssh*le, Mon,” said a voice from the door. Hugo was back.

“Here,” he said, and handed him the most enormous bag of coke he had ever seen.
He could smell the ether a mile away. Dude realized quickly he had underestimated its size. ‬It was much fluffier than the sugar he’d practiced with at home. He had nowhere to put it. So where does a man place large valuable things?

He stuffed it in his pants.

Hugo smiled. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk. I’m sure you have somewhere to go right now.”

“All right, OK, I’ll see you.”

Nervous as all get-out, that's what Dude was.

With the bag in his pants looking like some sort of giant erection Dude stepped into the street. The bulge was unsightly and conspicuous. Never before in his life did he want a cab so badly.

Fortunately for Dude that’s exactly what showed up, a cab‬, and whisked him off to the hotel.

When he went up to his room to open the door, a gigantic green tree frog was stuck on the wall near the doorknob. He ignored it, got inside quickly and locked the door.
‬Pulling out the bag out he realized he’d never done a single line of thanks with Hugo.

“But that’s OK,” he figured, “I’ll do one with myself instead.”

That’s coke logic for ya.

He took a crisp peso Boliviano and rolled it up and secured it using the fold. Then fingered a razor blade out of his wallet and took the picture of Lake Titicaca off the wall. He scooped a small pile out of the bag, then made a line the size of a match-head on the glass of the frame. Underneath was a photo of the lake and altiplano. The line was so small you could barely see it. Then he went to the wall and turned on some canned music that came piped through a speaker in the wall.

They were playing Dick Dale and the Daletones. It was surf music. Surf music!

“I’m in a land-locked country, not a beach in sight, listening to surf music. Whadda you think about that?”

He snorted the line and as it began to numb his nose he thought,

“It makes so much sense. Maybe the Beach Boys will be next.”

It woke him up and changed his mood.That was just what he needed. Although it was more than late, he had work to do. And now, with the substance numbing his nose, he took a different attitude. He felt now as if it was early, and that whatever work he had to do should be done immediately. He would do a good job. He had to do a good job. His freedom depended upon it being…a good job… and nothing less.


Frankenstein Prepares the Monster's Mix

The first thing he did was spoon the powder from the one large bag to many smaller seal-top bags that would be placed in the blocks. Then he’d prepare the resin filler.
This required concentration. Mixing the chemicals would be a one-time shot. If he made a mistake nothing could be redone or replaced. If the resin didn’t get hard enough, it couldn’t be remixed. If it got too hard it would heat up too much and melt the bags, ruining the product.

He laid everything out on the dresser. The cups, resin, catalyst, color, lead, aluminum flakes and popsicle sticks for mixing. When everything was there and in order he started to mix the mix.

It was time for the one-time shot.

Outside a tropical storm crept near‬. ‬Forked and flash lightning and thunder filled the sky. He mixed the chemicals, measured the amounts with precision and stuffed the coke into the blocks.
He needed somewhere to put the blocks, somewhere that was flat. The dresser was taken up. He placed his American Tourister on the bed since it was almost flat. He poured in the resin and waited for the results. It is the waiting that kills. Would it get hot, just hot enough? Or would it get too hot? He stepped away and tried to wait but anxiety was no friend to Dude. He was no good at waiting.

Out‬side the sliding glass door to the balcony inky thunderclouds were crowding the sky with a vengence. Then came streaks of forked lighting followed so closely by thunder it sounded like canon fire. The glass of the windows began to shake violently with their report. And it was hot, steamin hot. He wiped his brow of sweat. When he saw the sweat on his fingers it hit him.
That’s what he hadn’t figured on!

The ambient temperature in the room might throw the whole thing off! It was hotter here than in San Diego. He didn’t know. He had to find out.

He approached the bed with reverence, the suitcase stacked on top like an alter designed by American Tourister. He reached for the block to check its temperature. Lightning flashed through the window flooding the room with white light just as his finger tip touched the block. It was more than‬ just warmth.

It was the spark of creation.

“It’s alive,” he whimpered‬ like a dog and drew back his finger.

He turned away‬. His breathing became irregular. He spoke the‬ magic Collin Clive words again,

“It’s alive!”

Then his hands became nervous shaking hands, and he didn’t know what to do with them or with himself for that matter. The smell of the ether and cooking resin permeated the room like a laboratory. He couldn’t stand breathing‬ the suffocating toxic vapors.

Grabbing the handle to the sliding glass door and the storm without, he threw it open.

Serious thunder boomed like a howitzer, forked lightning slashed and tore at the clouds rending them asunder. Savage rivulets of rain ran in torrents down his face and crept down his body‬ like an anaconda.

He faced the seething sky and announced to the heavens with his fist just as the lightning struck,

“It’s alive!” he petitioned the Gods of Thunder‬ and Lightning, “Alive!”

He liked being a dramatic fool at times, Dude did.

Then he said, “Frankenstein’s got nothing on me,” and calmly walked back inside.

He fell to the floor laughing, and rolled over on his back and tilted his head until he could see out the window. The clouds rushed past. The lightning appeared smaller and more distant. The interval between the thunder and lightning grew longer indicating the storm was heading away.

The worst was over.

The evil deed ‬was done, and the demon‬? The demon substance disguised as yellow rock was locked between the layers of resin in the blocks.

It was controlled for now.

What would happen when it was released state-side could only be imagined or‬ dreamed.
Dude would be the last to know because right now he was asleep on the floor and wasn’t dreaming at all. The sh‬*t hadn’t lasted that long. The effects disappeared after forty-five minutes and he was exhausted from lack of sleep. While Frankenstein Dude slept soundly the storm headed north.

The storm he‬’d imprisoned in the resin would soon be heading north too.

Either way, the north land was due for some changes, and Dude was to be their epicenter.

[Delta40]

Now the story feels back on track for me. Even though it's early morning and winter here, I felt the balmy tropics as I read. Great depiction of the storm and 'it's alive!' (reminded me of Vietnam weather) Put a smile on my face as Dude transforms to Frankenstein Dude. I wonder what trade it is he is learning though because he seems quite good at what he is doing! Nevertheless, another great instalment Steve and I await the next one.

[Steven Hunley]

Ice Cream and Danger to Go

The next morning Dude went back to town and saw Hugo. They went to the plaza around noon to have ice cream at a popular shop. While they were eating, two men who dressed impeccably saw Hugo from across the room and came over. They looked so alike they had to be brothers. They shook hands with Hugo and Dude when he introduced them. Then they sat together and talked. Later, after they left, Hugo said,

“That’s the two bothers I score from.”

“Really, they don’t seem like coke dealers.”

“Neither do you, my friend.”

Dude looked down at himself.

“I see what you mean.”

They started to talk of psychedelics again, and Dude mentioned Yage, a substance Alan Ginsberg had written about in The Yage Letters.

“They have it here, but here they call it ayahuasca.”

“I’ve always wondered about it, what’s it like?”

“Maybe I can arrange something,” Hugo said, “get back to me tomorrow.”

It seemed innocent enough, that ice-cream soda. But Dude’s nose was numb. He’d done a line before heading into town and couldn’t smell the evil in the air. It was there, drifting from the back room where it had been hiding behind a curtain.

Lenny and Phil liked ice-cream too.

They were sitting in the back room when Dude and Hugo walked in, watching the two brothers who they’d been trailing for weeks.

“Who’s that they’re talking with now?” sweated Phil.

“Looks like an American trying to score,” Lenny greased back.

“What an idiot.”

“From the frying pan right into the fire.”

That’s all they said to each other before returning to swilling their cheap beer. It was more than enough. Just by saying it they’d placed Dude on their “to get” list.
Why?
Guilt by association, that’s why.

Poor Dude, wrong place, wrong time. He should have stayed back in California where things weren't so hot. Instead, he picked the tropics.

They still needed to find out where he was staying. That gave him time to breathe.

The Hut on the Yapacani

“You have a feeling of achievement when you discover a new plant, even a plant that has no use.” --Richard Evans Schultes.

The next day Hugo met Dude and headed into the forest, first by jeep and then by foot.
The journey Dude was about to take wouldn’t all be by jeep or foot either. But he would put in some miles.

When they left the road the going got rough. It was hot and humid and the air was still. After only ten minutes they sweat through their shirts, first under the armpits, then on the centers of their chests and backs. It was never quiet off the road. Howlers would be howling, and added to that was the chatter of numerous birds, the squawking of Green Amazon parrots, and the constant buzzing of insects around their heads. The forest was alive with greens from head to foot. The constant crunch of their boots crushing through dead leaves on the forest floor scattered myriads of emerald-green lizards escaping into the jade forest. It was shady in most parts and only sunny in a very few patches. Up ahead they spied an open spot. This was the clearing they were looking for.

A small tributary of the Rio Yapacani ran languidly behind a bamboo hut with a single jacaranda growing nearby, planted to provide shade.

The hut was guarded by a Scarlet Macaw, its wings aflash in the dazzling sunlight. He screeched a warning to the inhabitants, who came out immediately. An old man appeared who had a face as wrinkled as the stream, followed by a girl of about seven who possessed especially knowing eyes for someone so young. Dude learned later she was his granddaughter. He recognized Hugo immediately. So did the girl.

Dude expected a man who lived there, and with that appearance would probably speak Chiquitano, or at best Espanol. Instead what he heard was,

“Hugo, you pendejo, where have you been?”

“Nowhere but where I am, Old Man.”

Evidently they knew each other.

“Who’s this then?”

“This is Dude, a friend. An explorer like you.”

“Like me eh?” he laughed. “We’ll see about that.”

The girl was close now and would not allow her presence to be denied.

*“I’m Rima,” she said, and put out her hand.

“Don’t laugh;” said the old man. “I always liked Green Mansions.”

“Maybe it was Audrey Hepburn you liked,” said Hugo.

Dude smiled, then knelt down and shook it with gusto.

“I’m Dude,” he answered politely. “Pleased to meet you.”
Dude was good at formalities when he had to be, and always got along with women, no matter their age.

“Ayahuasca then?” said the old man.

“Yes,” replied Hugo, “that’s what we’re here for. How did you know?”

“That’s what you’re always here for,” he answered. “They don’t call me a curandero for nothing. Let’s go.”

He grabbed a canteen slung from the tree, filled it with water, and then soaked it to keep it cool. They followed him into the forest. They wandered a bit, and the old man pointed to several plants, then trees, even vines. He told them the name of each and what they were for. Rima would repeat each one in turn as if she were memorizing them.

“When I kick the bucket,” he explained, “it’ll be all up to her.” He said with no accent at all, as if he spoke English as his mother tongue.

“You speak English really well,” Dude observed.“Like a native.”

“I should, I went to UCLA four years. I knew English before that. But I picked up American English in college when I got my degree.”

“What in?”

“New world ethnobotany.”

“So you’re a botanist.”

“Sure am.”

It was getting thick now; every step required a swing of his machete. All the trees had creepers, and in their branches were purple and white orchids and pink flaming bromeliads.

“Got stuck here while doing some field work. Now I’ve got family I’m stuck here for good. In the states I was just a cog in the wheel. Never liked being just a cog. Here I’m respected, got a family. Family is important to me. Far more important than being a cog I can tell you.”

Dude nodded in agreement. The fact didn’t require much verification to his way of thinking.
Finally they reached a set of vines with pink and white flowers. The old man directed them to cut off portions, but leave them attached by carefully leaving strips of bark whole on the edges.

“Leave the sections attached by a piece of bark, whatever you do.”

When they did, seeds fell out.

“Look Grandfather! It has seeds now!”

“It’s that time of year, Nieta.”

She stooped down to gather them up in her hand, then handed some to Dude.

“The plant is in the seed Dude, use these when you need to.”

When Dude placed them in his shirt pocket, his fingers felt a small compass he’d put there with a chain that he got in a box of Crackerjacks. He pulled it out with the tips of his fingers and gave it to the girl in exchange.

“Good,” laughed Grandfather, “you won’t need that where you’re going.”

Hearing this, Rima laughed too. She knew what was in store.

The Ceremony with Jaguars

They returned to the hut and made a fire to prepare the drink. When they scraped the center free of the bark, it oxidized like an apple and turned blood red. Then they added water and cooked it up just as the sun was going down. Dude noticed it glowed blue-green in the dark. The girl added wood to the fire one stick at a time.

They drank.

It was bitter in the extreme and hard to stomach.
Within fifteen minutes Dude’s stomach grew heavy and he threw up his guts. After that visions began. The old man began to chant something he didn’t understand. It was in Chiquitano. He spoke it after all.

Dude noticed something moving in the shadows, a serpent with skin of multi-colored jewels. Another appeared in the branch of a tree. They met and wound around each other.
When the old man changed the words he sung, the visions changed as well.
“What do you see?”

“I see birds now,” Dude answered, “multicolored birds, beautiful multicolored birds with fabulous colors…”

The old man started singing another sort of song now. The girl placed another stick in the fire.

“What do you see now? You may see… this, or you may see… that…or you may see….”

His voice trailed off. There was something else out in the darkness approaching. No, two things, two things coming closer. They were a pair of Jaguars, one male, one female. Both were outlined with green glowing light. It reminded Dude of a painting by Matisse, that’s how loaded he was. The glowing throbbed in time with their purring.

“It’s jaguars I see now.”

At this the old man and his granddaughter shot knowing glances back and forth.

“I thought so,” his voice pointed to Dude, but his eyes were on his granddaughter.

At first Dude, who was unfamiliar with the ways jaguars, thought they were fighting. But he soon realized that wasn’t what they were doing. Mating is what they were doing. It was a spectacular sight.

Afterwords he fell exhausted into a deep dream-filled sleep.

The dream was this:

He flew through the air at a tremendous rate, over the forest, then the mountains, then above a coastal desert full of ruined Chimu buildings form‬ed of geometric patterns. Then a coastal plane where he saw fantastic images of spiders and hummingbirds made of rock outlines laid out on the ground. He continued over a large dark sea that sparkled in the moonlight and ran on forever. He regained a coast again and flew north, ever northward, until he saw a city below him with tall buildings with regular outlines. One was taller than the rest and was made of glass and obsidian. Here he slowed down and landed on the roof. A girl with rope hair appeared in a white cotton dress that was stained with blood. As forked lightning surged above, a fine mist began to fall. She grasped his shoulders with hands so strong he couldn’t resist and drew him towards her. They made love, and as they violently climaxed at the same moment, jagged lightning flashed and reflected in the river below like a dark curving mirror.

Then the dream ended as suddenly as it began.

When he awoke he couldn’t remember a thing, but the dream slept inside him as many dreams do.

He got up the next morning and inspected the fire, smelling the burnt wood and ashes. Nearby, between it and the forest, he found a tuft of hair. The old man appeared from the hut and came to join him.

“This is real hair,” said Dude, “I thought it was an illusion, like the dream.”

“Are you saying you think dreams aren’t real?”

“Well, I thought maybe the plant, the ayahuasca…”

The old man cut him off.

“Don’t be foolish. They’re as real as you and me. Here, let’s sit and talk a while.”

Close to the river they sat on the rocks as the water swirled around them in blue eddying pools. Dude noticed that the day was incredibly clear, and that the river itself had a flow or direction that seemed to have purpose and was no distraction at all.

“Some plants have a special relationship with men,” the old man began.

“Many men judge plants to be stupid because they see they have no brain. It’s true of course, plants have no brain at all. But plants have consciousness and respond to light and sound and the feeling of men. So never confuse brains or central nervous systems with consciousness. And plants are rooted, not in just clay or sand or mud. Sometimes they are more firmly rooted in reality than men. This ayahuasca vine is a healer‬ and psychedelic. When we cut the outer sections we are careful to leave the outer skin intact. By next year they’ll have grown back. Some plants are good at healing, right?”

“I guess so. Many plants grow back fast.”

“And plants can heal. Look at penicillin. You ever use Neosporin?”

“Sure.”

“It’s related to penicillin. As far as plants go it’s a stupid plant, just a mold really, kind of primitive. Imagine how more evolved this vine is, and the relation is has with the insects and birds and monkeys…even men. I tell you, my friend, right now eighty-five percent of medicines come from organic sources, and they’ve only scratched the surface. It’s a pharmacy we’re sitting in, a vast pharmacy.”

Dude looked at the trees and plants surrounding them. Certainly there could be more. There was always more to everything.

“So the treasure here isn’t the El Dorado the Spaniards were seeking.”

“The treasure here isn’t gold at all. It’s green. If you want healing, healing on a molecular level, this is it. Remember it. Use it for what it’s good for. Nothing else. It’s what God intended, that’s all.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but what about the jaguars, why did I see jaguars?”

“That’s simple enough, Amigo. In your heart you’re a jaguar. You just saw a reflection of your knowing self.”

“But I’m no jaguar, I’m lost right now. I’m always lost. I have no focus. I never know where‬ the hell I am.”

“Don’t worry, this feeling will pass. You're young, a cub really. You’re not really lost; you’re just on an excursion, an excursion of both mind and body. Jaguars are the wisest cats in the new world, and the most powerful. They always find their way home.”

The others woke up and were starting to appear. It was time to eat and leave. Dude and Hugo bid goodbye to the old man and Rima with the knowing eyes, who was wearing the compass and chain around her neck.

As they were leaving, Dude gave his shirt pocket a pat to check if the seeds were still there.

They were.

Return to Santa Cruz

When Dude got back to the hotel and was going up to his room and getting his key, he asked the concierge for an envelope and paper. He sat down in his room at the dresser and wrote a short note to Alex, giving him instructions on how to sprout the seeds. It was the only communication with the boy he’d had in weeks. The note was short, the letter was thin. All in all if you had to judge it from the outside, it wasn’t much. About the most valuable thing about it was the stamp.

Two days later Dude was getting into a cab at night to head into town. Canadian Steve told him there was a rumor going around that some agents from the DEA had busted one of the two brothers and was searching for the other. The cab had two passengers in it already but Dude was willing to share and took a seat in front next to the driver. As they pulled away from the hotel he felt cold steel pressed on the back of his neck between the top of his spine and his head.

A voice said, “You’re under arrest.”

He never even made it to dinner.

Later, as he sat in the damp cell in center 42 watching pairs of cockroaches slow-dancing across the floor, our Excitable Boy remembered the words of the immortal Warren Zevon.

“I’m hiding in Honduras
I’m a desperate man
Send lawyers guns and money
The sh*t has hit the fan.”

Yes, he wasn’t in Honduras and yes, he wasn’t being realistic. But then again, when have you ever known Dude to be realistic?

Never.
Not in this lifetime anyway.

The Road of Death


When the DEA left Center 42 with the prisoners in back of the truck it was temprano en la manana-still dark. That was usually early for Lenny and Phil to wake up.

Their plan was to take them to a lock-up in the capital, La Paz where, unlike in Santa Cruz, the officials could not be bribed. It was probably a mistake. The only way there was by a single road named El Camino del Muerte that wound its way up, into the Eastern Cordillera or Cordillera Oriental of the Andes and was called that simply because it was a treacherous single-lane tract, with many switch-backs, at times steep, and many buses of Indians had gone down there, like a ship at sea, falling over its edge and drowning in its canyons, which were common, as the altitude climbed from sea-level in the yungas, or valleys, to fourteen thousand feet near La Paz.

It had a reputation for danger. This day it would keep its reputation… in spades.

As they pulled out of town the forest began to surround the road. It was cool and still early. An hour later the dew was still on the grass, and the leaves, and the steel barrels of the AKs held by the primos (or cousins) of the two brothers in the truck. They secreted themselves in the forest. Hugo had seen to that. Dude knew nothing about this. He was only along for the ride. Handcuffed to the other two for crimes of his own, they jostled and bumped along the road in the back of the truck. On the truck rolled, deeper and deeper into the gaping mouth of the forest. There would be no arrival at the capital and no turning back on this trip.

Yet there would be a stop.

A tree had fallen across the road. One agent stepped down to inspect.

“We’ll just use the winch and pull it aside,” he told the other who remained in the cab.

“It’s OK,” the second one answered, “we’ve got all day.”

The first one went to the trunk of the tree to take a closer look.

When the agent came to the trunk he didn’t see a break or an uprooting. He saw it had been cut.

He noticed the forest go quiet, quiet as a tomb.

When he considered both the cut and the quiet he knew he was dead.

A shot rang out of the shadows proclaiming liberty. The other barrels grew so hot they turned the dew to steam. The prisoners regained their freedom and along with the gunmen gained the safety of the forest. Their laughter was soon muffled by the leaves and the creepers and lianas, and the clearing went silent save for the drip drip dripping of scarlet death as it stained and soaked the dry fallen leaves as if trying to give them new life.

They walked between the trees on a footpath and the footpath gave way to a trail, the trail to a dirt road where their jeeps were lying in wait. From there it was to the skirts on the outskirts of town. With warm skirts the beer was always so cool. They entered Esmeralda’s place from the back and took her by surprise.

She was elated.

Each found his favorite skirt or woman, same thing. These wild-eyed pistol-wavers weren’t afraid to die, yet they weren’t afraid to party either.

That’s how they do it in the tropics.

Real simple.

[Steven Hunley]

Getaway
A day later Dude left town for good, his only souvenir of the incident were cuff marks on his wrists. Whatever bad memories he had of the town were left like the red mud from his boot heals as he knocked them against the steps he took to get in the plane. His memories therefore were good.

“Vaya con Dios,” Hugo told him as they shook hands.

Before, when he heard it from others, it only meant goodbye. From Hugo it meant another thing entirely.

It meant “Go with God."

First he left Santa Cruz. Then in and out of Cochabamba, then La Paz, and then Bolivia was abandoned and left far behind.

The witches market, with it’s fine-woven many-colored blankets, the short stocky men with wads of coca bulging their cheeks, the wads of chewed coca littering the gutters, the women with their long black hair and ubiquitous hats selling mummified llama fetuses in the streets, the bags of fresh coca and baskets of sweet lime lipta, all gone like a high-altitude dream.

Lima was the only stop over. In the airport he caught two women laughing insanely as they stepped on the escalator as if it were a ride at Disneyland. The bar was using paper napkins that were torn in two. The airport was unlike any other he’d seen. At the end of the tarmac, as they gained speed, he noticed two Sabre-jets parked. In Peru the air force shared the runway with commercial jets. The jets, with tanks on their wing tips, were straight out of the fifties.

When he flew out of Lima he knew it would be nine hours before he hit LAX. He didn’t barf all the way up the way he had on the way down because he was confident and knew where he was going for a change. He couldn’t sleep, but he could never sleep on planes anyway, so that was no loss. As they approached the coast they started passing out debarkation cards. A glamorous woman in high heels who’d been drinking was nervous and kept asking how to fill out her custom’s declaration,

“What should I do about this coat? It was a gift.”

She asked Dude, the people in front, and the people in back. Soon she’d asked half the people on the plane the same question.

It was a vicuna coat. A pretty expensive gift at that.

She sat down and poured a few more Pisco sours down her gullet.

A vicuna is the rarest animal in the Andes that gives wool. It’s not just the wool that’s valuable; the fur is unseen and unheard of because the animal is protected and rare. Even in the old days only the Inca had access to it, and I don’t mean common Indians. I mean Manco Capac.

But here she was wearing a rare vicuna fur coat. No wonder she was nervous and drunk. Finally out the right cabin windows Dude noticed lights below in the darkness.

“When you see the lights of San Diego below, and if you’re nervous, that’s when to take your valiums. You’ve got about twenty minutes.”

That’s what the old man’s instructions were.

He patted his pocket to check they were there. Just then a stewardess happened to pass by.

“Is that San Diego?” he asked with confidence, thinking he already knew the answer.

“No,” she answered,” that’s Los Angeles. We’ll be landing in a minute.”

“Oh.”

Pretty calm answer from a guy whose mind was just blown and knew it was panic time.

He swiftly took the bottle out of his pocket and shook out two and munched them like candy. Not candy, no water, just blue V’s crunch-crunched up.

“That’ll do the trick,” he told himself. “They have to do the trick ASAP.”

The landing light flashed and everyone took their seats.


“I’ve got to have time, more time.”

He was depending on his little blue helpers to give him an edge, or to take off the edge he had, however you look at it. Either way, acting nervous was not an act he wanted a customs officer to catch. When they landed and everyone got off, he stalled, making sure he was the last to leave the plane.

“I need time to feel them,” is what he told himself.

When he reached the baggage carousel he saw his suitcase. It looked like such an incriminating bag, kinda sinister in its intent, so he let it go by… twice.

“I think I feel them.”

When it went around the third time he picked it up. Through immigration he carried it. When he came to customs, the lady with the coat was there so he let her go first. She was sloppy drunk by now. Neither one of them said a word, instead they were thinking in turn,

“I should be feeling them.”

And,

“It’s a gift.”

She pushed her suitcase on one agent’s table just as he pushed his onto another. Then, when they started asking her questions, Drunk Lady began to act nervous.

Bad sign. She could have easily rented a spotlight and megaphone.

“I must be feeling them by now,” he prayed.

“I’ll tell them it’s a gift,” she wished.

The customs agent gave him the once over, then looked at the bag, and instead of opening it as expected, got distracted by Drunk Lady at the next table who began shouting at the top or her lungs,

“But it was a gift, I’m telling you, a gift!”

Customs Man quickly chalked a cross on his suitcase and pointed him towards the exit. Then he walked over to help the other agent with Drunk Lady.

The alcohol saved the cocaine. It was a gift.

Dude walked the last few steps in shock. All the planning, all the sweating, all the anxiety had been for nothing. He’d never know if the scam was good, or if it would have failed. That’s the trouble with being a transporter. You’re never sure if your scam is foolproof, or if you slide by because of the luck of the draw. But he learned something else.

As he walked out the last door and into the long hallway that led outside, the suitcase he’d been carrying had suddenly became much much more valuable.

This thought gave him an incomparable rush he couldn’t ignore. He felt like a magician, a Houdini who’d just pulled off an enormous trick.
The trick of his career.

There was one aspect of this trick however he had no conception of.

It wasn’t quite the suitcase it had been. It had magically changed into a tiger’s tale. He had a firm grip on it now, but soon he wouldn’t know how to let go.

When he boarded the jet to San Diego the valiums really did kick in, leaving him far too Valium-tranquillo to care.

What a jerk.

But it’s OK; your favorite dude wouldn’t stay that way for long.

The End!