Richter and Me, a Prohibition Tale (in installments)

[Richter]

I was freebasing a hit of First Nation Privilege in the speakeasy booth over bad gin and a few musty lagers when it hit me.

"Fuck.  FUCK...."

"You finally hit too much of that crap?" Roger offhandedly mentioned.

"They cut our shi..." was about all I got out.  No good.  We got burned, and I has been hitting off a bag padded out with cultural appropriation.

"I need feathers."  My eyes were wide.  Stock straight, and trying to immitate a nickel I'd seen once.

"OK.  You're not new to this, ride it out.  And you sound like a tool."

"Some braids.  I don't care, I've ripped enough Irish through my nose, I'm the next best thing to Blackfoot..."  I was removng my trousers and improvising a breechclout from my shirt.  I was eyeing the barkeep's toupe for a scalp to hang from my belt.

"Cut teh crap.  Fast.  We've got work to do and I need you at least passing for professional"

"Don't make me pull a fucking rain dance!  I'm thunderbird material right now.  I need to use every part of a whole hobo to buckskin some..."

About then Roger kaiboshed my misbegotten high with a barstool.  I woke up in the trunk a few hours later a boot of the ford.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

 

I gotta get back on this.

[Doktor Howl]

I feel as if this needs finishing.

[LMNO]

It certainly is still relevant.

[Doktor Howl]

It certainly is still relevant.

Oh, yeah.

And I have some time coming up.  I'm still working the AI story, but I need to get my asshole demons on, too.