“Mr. Davis. We ain’t been introduced.”
Mr. Davis. What are you doing here?
“Whatever the fuck I want, you white motherfucker.”
“Grateful Dead? That what all this shit is?”
Yeah, I guess.
“Broaden your horizons, you uneducated motherfucker. I played with the Dead. Weird-looking white boys. Could play a bit. Drummer wasn’t bad. That hairy Mexican motherfucker on guitar was a good kid. Respectful. Knew my music, and his history. I liked playing for those crowds. Freaky white kids, peaceful, they’d listen. Fuck white bitches. Bigger money. Playing with the Dead, yeah: good for me. Good for me.”
Mr. Davis, I’m sorry: I cannot hear a word you’re saying. Could you speak up?
“I’m gonna run you over with my Ferrari, cracker.”
You’re no fun.
I should go.