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Ganja Tales by Craig Pugh
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SLINGIN' "You gotta gun and I gotta gun, so bring it on, tough guy, 'cause I ain't backing down."
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. . . . Tony glanced in the rear-view mirror. The kid in back looked even younger than Rotten Breath. He sniffed and wiped his hand across his runny nose, his fervent eyes burning with whatever mix of drugs he was on: crank, crack, smack, Special K, DMT.
Powder eyes. Eyes of no mercy.
Tony pulled onto the highway, the color draining from his face faster than water from a busted radiator hose. The assailants’ smells of booze, BO and blunts flipped his stomach. No wonder, he thought, it’s frickin’ sliced open. He put his hand over the wound and held his shirt to it, his head spinning around in dizzy sweat. Get a hold of yourself, he thought. Conquer panic. Think clearly. You are in trouble … big trouble. Deep breaths. Okay. They were going to kill him. For what? In his side mirror he saw the third black guy following them. Where’s a friggin’ cop when you need one? His kidnappers had chosen a good time--soon it would be dark.
He drove west somberly, wondering how he got into situations like this. Perhaps he should have changed his ways long ago while he was ahead of the game. He knew the Lords of Karma had been tapping on his window for some time, trying to get his attention. But he was always too busy working or having fun to stop, slow down, and listen.
-- from "Slingin'," by Craig Pugh
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