“Yo! Thoughts on my Ass!”
Oh, good: a nickname.
“How the fuck are ya?”
I’m, uh, good – Billy, why are you still at the Cannabis Cup?
“Love it here.”
It ended a week ago.
“Yeah, fuck that. Paying these fuckers behind me to keep the party going.”
Billy, we’ve talked about this sort of thing.
“I’ve set myself up to be a sort of god-king. Colonel Kurtz kinda thing, y’know.”
“A little pricey, but worth it.”
I’m sure it’s fun, but the income is no longer there for stunts like this, buddy. There’s no fall tour to replenish the coffers anymore. You got this one big payout coming and then you’re going back to the farm to surf and shoot at wild pigs.
“And the book.”
There’s no way you haven’t spent the book money already.
“Plus, ol’ Billy’s got an ace up his sleeve.”
Robbery or kidnapping?
“After the last show in Chicago, I’m gonna follow Phil back to his car and mug him for his cut.”
That’s not how…no. No, you can’t do that.
“Sure, I can. Already got the baton to hit him with: one of those collapsible fuckers the police use.”
Oh, you can hit him–you shouldn’t, though–but he’s not going to have “his cut” on him, Billy. This isn’t the old days: at no point will a fast food-bag full of well-handled twenties be involved.
“Well, now who’s being naive?”