Sorry about the language, mom.
A while ago I thought about entering some flash fiction contests and ginned up a bunch of stories in my head on the way to work. Believe it or not I don’t just write about fly fishing! At any rate, Brianne Barkley, a woman with a flash fiction site started following my blog today, so I thought “why not?”
I knew I was in the shit when I pulled into the yard after vacation and saw the police tape over the kicked-in door. I’m sure you can relate that in general this is never a good thing, but if your job is delivering pot from the local grow house to the dealers, and you happened to be stashing a surplus in the pipeline for a few days, you might understand the watery bowel feeling I suddenly had.
One nice thing about the Seattle suburbs is you can live next door to somebody for years and never talk to them. I mean like Kabuki theater deadpan faces as you view each other getting in and out of your cars for what, eight years now. And I really meant it: this is a good thing for a drug runner. I was always very careful to pull my ’67 Impala into a dark garage and unload the hockey bags of dope. Hockey bags are nice because they hold about as much as you can comfortably carry the short distances you carry it. Vintage Detroit rolling steel is nice because you can put an 8′ 2×4 in the trunk of most of them. Five bags of dope doesn’t even compress the springs. And they are fast as shit on I5 if it comes to that. I’d done a little work on the 327 and the springs just in case, and well, because I had a shitload of money to burn.
Thing about agricultural businesses like this one is that sometimes the supply, crop, is ready before the demand, dealers, are out. So I have to get it out of the grower’s way and hold it for a while. It’s also my job to get rid of all of the waste, and there is a surprising amount of waste, like 95% even though my grower has a special process of chopping it up really fine and rolling the resinated buds in it to increase weight. At any rate, that’s why I had 20 bags of spleef in my garage when my girlfriend, excuse me, fiancee, decided we should go to the San Juans for the week. Kind of hard to say, “But honey, I’ve got a ton of prime bud in the garage that needs watching.” I mean what could go wrong?
Well what could go wrong is that your girlfriend’s, excuse me – fiancee’s, cat food could have a maggot infestation in the cans, which causes the cans to burst open. Or the cans burst open and you get a maggot infestation, I never figured which. The little bastards turn into flies, which make a black swarm on your windows. Your neighbors, who never gave two shits about while you were alive, although it turns out they secretly spied on you all the time , think you are dead and call the cops. The cops show up, knock for a bit, kick in your fucking door and look around. Then they leave a polite note of apology and a number to call to get it fixed.
Meanwhile you sit in a dark house with no locks, holding a 9mm and try to figure out if the stupid bastards could possibly have missed the ton of dope, ton; two-thousand-English-Pound-fucking ton, of dope in the garage, or if they are just waiting for you to call about the door so they can have a little talk with you about your horticulture hobby. I mean, one thing you cannot hide is the smell of that much weed. My garage definitely smelled like Hempfest on a still day.
Face it. You rarely want the cops to be smart. You hope they miss you speeding, or don’t notice your plates are expired, or that your seat belt isn’t on and you have a 22-ouncer between your thighs for the drive home. But you can never count on the cops not being smart. You can, however, do your best to not be stupid. Suffice it to say, I moved out before dawn and retired quite suddenly. Now I’m getting married and have no job. Ain’t that a bitch? Fucking cats.