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Interlude with Dr. Samuel R. Kelly, ethnobotonist
2004-08-27 - 3:41 a.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

"Here's the plan," Dr. Samuel R. Kelly said to me, eyes glazed over with pain, shifting uneasily in his chair, "We load up, gear up, head outta' town and go to Florida."

I bent down and snorted another line off of the hooker's ass laying in front of me, glaring at the Imam in the corner, daring him to say something to me.  After all, he's the one who sold me the blow.  Why the fuck should I care if it goes to terrorists, anyway?  We are a doomed generation, they say, and whomever "they" are, they are always right.  And the Imam always had good shit.

"Getting loaded soundsabout right," I slurred, the coke cutting through the whiskey buzz, cleaning me up, sharpening my mind.  I'm not sure if I really liked it, but it seemed like the thing to do.

"No. NO.  Loaded for bear, y'see?  First stop-O.J. Simpsons house."  He said, wrapping a black strap around his left arm.

"O.J. Simpson--what the fuck do I want anything to do with the Juice?" I asked, slapping the hookers tight, firm ass.  She yelped in pain but remained still.

"You weird fuckers done yet?" she arched her back and rested on her elbows, chewing on sugarless gum, "I'm getting bored."

"Keep quiet honey," I said, "I'm paying you good money to be seen and not heard, capiche'?  Daddy's doing business."

Kelly grunted a cheap laugh as he tightened the belt with his teeth, forcing a needle into his arm. "Time for the medicine." he said with an evil laugh.

"So, DOC," I said, hoping he wouldnt go off on the nod,"What the FUCK do I want with THE JUICE?"  The cocaine was good, but it was making me aggressive.  I jumped his shit, and I knew it.  The imam bobbed in the corner, uttering a silent prayer to Allah.

Dr. Kelly fixed me with a steely glare, just to let me know that I had crossed a line before continuing.

"We," he said with an unneccessarily lengthly pause prompted by the morphine in his system, "Are going to put the Juice on ice."

"We're gonna' freeze the Juice?"

"We're going to freeze," he replied, pausing again, "the Juice."

"Why?"  I asked.  The hooker looked genuinely surprised.

"Because it is the right thing to do.  Justice must be served, the scales must right themselves once again.  And we shall serve as instruments of fate, and cheaply you will go down into the annals of history."

I hunched over laying out another line, snorting one last bump off her ass, and bit it for good measure.  She shrieked then giggled and sat in my lap. Bubbly girl, I liked her.

"Then we shall go to California, and smoke out Scott Peterson.  That son-of-a-bitch did it, and he's guilty.  So he has to die."

"Sure, why not, doc."

"THEN.  THEN we will go to colorado, and Kobe will pay the ultimate price.  No more of this nonsense.  Being a highly paid athlete does not give one the right to strike out at the masses wantonly doing as one would will.  They cannot do this, and the common man must strike back.  Justice must be served.  This, my boy, is where you come in."

Doc Kelly sat forward with a great deal of effort, nodding off once.  He fished a chrome nickel plated .45 magnum out of his pocket and set it on the wooden table in front of me with a solid metal thunk.

I picked it up and looked at it.  Gleaming danger in my hand.

"What do you think, honey?  Should I do it?"  I asked the hooker.

"I dont know." she replied, chewing on her gum, "Is he gonna' watch?  Because if he is, that costs extra."


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