Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  Mom and the Monster waited at the Honolulu departure gate with a firm grip on the last dozen muffins.

  “We had a wonderful vacation,” smiled Mom. “Thanks for not being all uptight for a change.”

  “Wait a second, Mom, that’s supposed to be my line.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “I gotta admit, it wasn’t nearly as horrifying as I thought it would be.” I hugged them good bye and reminded Mom, “Now make sure to give those muffins to Dad and Uncle Dick.”

  I really wanted the war to end.

  “If there are any left,” she said with a giggle.

  I sensed the war continuing.

  _ _ _

  As Happy drove me back to the farm, I kept saying, “Step on it.”

  I couldn’t wait to see the girls. The autumn equinox had arrived, and I knew the buds had to be almost ready. On the other hand, I was just as excited to plant my own crop as I was to harvest Ray’s. When Ray first gave me the good news about the plot, I did a dance of joy. Next I consulted the Moon Sign Book’s planting calendar, and on the first fertile day that rolled around, I started the seeds I’d been carrying for months. By the time I got back from Kauai, my sprouts were already five weeks old. Dark green and shiny, they were barely a foot tall. Seedlings grow maddeningly slow the first few weeks, but now, with the young leaves growing larger and gathering more light, the girls were ready to burst into gear.

  Happy had done a good job maintaining the plants in my absence, and when Ray returned from Maui the next day, he patted us both on the back like good pups. “You guys deserve a nice reward for all the help.”

  Feeling generous, he tossed us a bone. A real one, which Adolph immediately stole. As rewards went, I’d had better.

  Checking out the buds, the Scrooge-like Ray smiled. “We’ll give these babies a few more days and then pick ‘em.”

  The dense buds, engorged on chicken shit compost, as predicted, had attained obesity. They were sparkly, sticky, and smelled delightful. They were already more developed than the buds we’d been smoking. As a rookie, I felt surprised they’d gone that long. Also, at how secure the garden felt, you know, considering how much it smelled, how illegal it was, and the felon-lined road that we lived on. More than a few of our neighbors would’ve thought nothing of murder and mayhem to get their hands on those buds. When I’d first come on board, I’d expressed my concerns to Ray regarding the crop’s safety (as well as our own) versus Makimaki Road.

  “What’s to worry about?” asked Ray.

  Seriously? We lived next door to cannibals. Also, the most violent criminals in Hawaii. Wasn’t it obvious?

  Like Jimmy Lennon, I used my announcer voice: “In the corner to my right, wearing glazed expressions, tie-dyed t-shirts, bikinis, and a safari suit, we have a bunch of giggling stoners. And in the corner to my left, wearing a malicious smile and a death lust for haoles, we have Makimaki Road.”

  Unconcerned, he chuckled and said, “I’d like to see ‘em try. So would the dogs. Right, Adolph?”

  “Woof!” agreed Adolph, giving Ray a salute.

  To the entire pack, he said, “You guys would love to get a little meat into your diet, wouldn’t ya?”

  Hearing the word meat, the pack went into a frenzy of joyous barking and tail wagging. I knew from Mango’s frequent hints that it kinda sucked having a vegetarian for a human, and that he and the gang would love a juicy steak now and then.

  He always added, “And by now and then, I mean all the time.”

  “Let’s pick ‘em now,” I suggested, then wiped my slobber away.

  “Here, put on this bib.”

  It had a picture of a marijuana leaf on the front. I chanted, “Must sample buds. . .”

  “Take it easy, man. We want ‘em perfect. Plus, the more weight they put on, the more value, brah. Long as everything is copasetic, it’s important not to rush your harvest.”

  “Got it,” I said, jotting down the tip in my little notebook, “don’t rush the girls.”

  “And don’t slobber on them either.”

  That sounded like good advice in general. Figuring it might help with Miss June, I added it to my list. So many rules.

  “Then again,” said my mentor, “these are super-close. See how the calyxes (think virgin seed pods) are all bloated?”

  As the flowers mature, the jillions of white hairs sprouting from the calyxes turn red, and then, like an old man’s, they eventually fall out. Picture Ron Howard.

  I watched Ray’s hat expand. “That’s not all that’s bloated.”

  “That’s where all the weight is.”

  “No kidding. Isn’t that hard on your neck?”

  “I meant the buds, wise guy. Squeeze ‘em. Feel how dense they are. These are almost perfect.”

  “Almost? How much more perfect could they get?”

  “That’s what I wanna find out.”

  “Errrr. . .” I growled, showing how pleased I was to be waiting longer.

  “Take it easy, Mikey, we don’t wanna be hasty.”

  I sighed. “I’ll try.”

  “Then again, we don’t wanna wait one moment too long. Get it?”

  “Pfft, of course.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Nah.” One moment? That level of precision set a high standard for a beginner. “To be clear, how do you know when you’ve waited exactly one moment too long?”

  “Someone steals ‘em,” joked Ray. “Not that it’s funny.”

  No, but it did prove ironic.

  After the plant review, a beaming Ray said, “I’ll be back later. You guys need anything from town?”

  I nodded. “Plenty of Zig Zags.”

  Chapter 24

  Plastic Fucking Donald

  After Ray and his furry bodyguards took off, the rest of us headed towards Kaena Point for some snorkeling. Coming back in early afternoon, we saw Ray’s pickup parked behind a van with blacked-out windows.

  “Whose rape van is that?” wondered Johnny.

  “Hope Ray remembered to bring brown rice,” said Rita.

  “More whole wheat flour, too,” added Jackie.

  “Wow,” said Happy, “the dogs are going crazy.”

  He was right. Usually they mobbed us when we drove up. From the sounds of them, they’d found something more appealing. I wondered what all the fuss was about. About then, we heard a different sound.

  “What was that?” yelped Jackie.

  “Probably a truck backfiring,” offered Happy.

  “A dozen times?” asked skeptical Rita.

  “That’s an M-16,” said Vietnam Vet Johnny.

  “Why’s it called that?”

  “Good question, Happy,” answered Johnny. “The M is for. . .”

  “Guys, focus,” snapped Rita.

  With the shooting at a lull, we heard a stranger’s voice vehemently cussing.

  Quick on his feet, Happy shouted, “Oh, shit, I think we’re getting ripped off.”

  Another volley of gunshots. More barking. More profanity. Then the oddly reassuring sound of Ray’s wild cackling.

  Like a master detective, I made a deduction. “Not any more, we’re not.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, Sherlock,” demanded Rita. “Go check it out.”

  Like idiots, we ran over to the water tank to get closer to the bullets. Fortunately, my guru had the situation under control. A confident Ray stood atop the water tank where he’d assumed a jaunty Charles Whitman pose, casually holding his assault rifle. For once, the safari suit seemed appropriate. A hundred feet away, at the edge of the elephant grass, a pack of white German shepherds growled like a team of idling chainsaws. Ray only held them back for fear of hitting one of his lovable killers. With a wild gleam of adrenaline and bloodlust in his bright red eyes, he rammed in another clip—click—and greeted us with a cheery, “Howzit, guys!”

  I raised my arms. “Don’t shoot. We come in peace.
”

  “I’m glad you’re back. You almost missed the fun.”

  From behind the elephant grass, “Damnit, I’ll get you for this.”

  “Fun?” I asked, just a bit skeptical.

  “Get your ass up here, Mikey, you slacker pacifist.”

  “Um. . .”

  “Come on, man, take a few shots. Don’t be so uptight.”

  “I may be a pacifist, but I’m not uptight. Except about food, cannibals, committing murder. . .”

  “Ray, you son of a bitch,” yelled an angry voice from the elephant grass. “You better cut that shit out.”

  Without even aiming, Ray squeezed off a few more rounds. “Don’t interrupt Mikey when he’s whining.”

  “Up yours. You don’t quit playing around, you might kill us.”

  “That’s the idea,” shouted Ray, giving us a wink. All those years in hardass military academies and corporate lawyering had not been for naught. He asked the grass a question. “Wait a second. . .haven’t I heard that slimy voice before?”

  “Kiss my ass. You know who it is, you prick.”

  “Plastic Fucking Donald?”

  “Eat shit.”

  “I thought I recognized that van. Ready to come out?”

  “Make us.”

  Ray obliged, sending another burst of motivational bullets just over the elephant grass.

  “How ‘bout now?” wondered my guru.

  “If we come out before dying back here, you gonna keep shooting?”

  “Depends,” explained Ray.

  “All right, asshole, here we come,” warned Donald. “You’re in for it now.”

  We watched a weasley haole with a profane mouth and lacquered blonde hair come slithering out. A hulking Hawaiian guy named Lolo (who tripled the size of the tunnel) followed him. Ray shouted a few commands in Afrikaans and the dogs went to work, happy to show off their training. He’d refrained from killing the rippers, but his mercy only went so far.

  Plastic Donald, never one to show humility, bared his teeth, did some snarling of his own. “Let go of me, Adolph, you son of a bitch (an insult that doesn’t work on dogs), before I bite your dog nuts off.”

  Adolph replied by biting harder.

  “Don’t make me hurt you. Aaaaaa. . . I hope I taste like a turd.”

  (Something else that didn’t bother dogs.)

  “You Nazi piece of shit, watch the shirt,” yelled Donald. “That’s fine polyester.”

  “Errrrrrrrrr,” replied Adolph between bites. Afrikaans for: I prefer natural fibers.

  In the next few seconds, showing his absolute disdain for polyester and plastics in general, Adolph tore the squirming Donald a new asshole.

  I turned away in disgust. “Jesus, Ray, I always thought that was a cliché.”

  “Not with my dogs.”

  Donald’s massive sidekick Lolo, a strongarm man for Da Syndicate, collected debts the old-fashioned way and understood the value of a deadly lesson.

  “Sorry, Ray,” he groaned, “I didn’t know it was you we wuz rippin’ off.”

  “Shut the hell up, Lolo,” ordered Donald.

  Plastic Donald showed a lot of arrogance for a mangled thief caught in the act. Apparently, he didn’t know the meaning of the word contrition.

  Neither did illiterate Lolo, but he did know a lot about danger. Ray called the dogs off their meal while he decided whether to offer Lolo a penalty shot for lying.

  “I know you’re not very bright, Lolo, but. . .”

  “Eh, tanks, brah.”

  “Sure,” said Ray, shaking his head. “Tell me, what did you think you were doing?”

  “Helping Crash.”

  “Helping Crash?”

  “That’s right, dickhead,” mumbled a groggy Plastic Donald. “Your stupid dogs mauled us for nothing.”

  Ray wanted to get to the bottom of this. “Crash sent you?”

  “No,” clarified Lolo, “Donald said he was gonna surprise him.”

  “Shut up, Lolo, you moron. Let me do the double-talking.”

  “Donald,” said Ray, impressed by the ripoff’s chutzpah and unassailable styling gel, if nothing else, “you’re too much.” Then, “Stop smiling, that wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Sounded like one to me.”

  Lolo, bleeding heavily and evidently tired of Donald’s company, had a suggestion. “Maybe I can drop Donald off in da cane fields (a burial site popular with Hawaii’s thugs) on the way to the Emergency Room?”

  Donald rasped, “No way, Lolo, you’re taking me to the hospital with you.”

  “I don’t tink so, brah.”

  “Thattaboy, Lolo,” said Ray, “I admire your integrity.”

  After the van split, Ray took a deep calming breath. “Plastic Fucking Donald. What an asshole.” He made a prediction, “No one’s gonna miss that guy.”

  As it happened, he was wrong. About then, we heard the sirens. Lots of them, and they were coming up Makimaki Road. Meanwhile, my sense of security was taking a nose dive. We’d foiled the ripoffs, but alerted the Man to our scene. The Man would not only rip off the rest of the pot, he’d throw us in jail. Bottled in at the end of Makimaki Road, the Forces of Darkness descending upon us, there was no escape by road. The corn field next door seemed to suggest: Now would be a good time to visit. Agreeing with the sensible corn, I was thinking: Feets, do your stuff.” So were the rest of us. Except for Ray, who stayed calm.

  “Ray, don’t you hear those sirens?”

  “Of course,” he answered, shrugging them off.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? We gotta get out of here.”

  He held up a finger as if listening for something. And a few seconds later, when a war broke out down the block, I knew what it was. We couldn’t see what was going on, but from the sounds of it, Makimaki Road’s resident felons were welcoming the Man with automatic weapons, showing him how they felt about getting arrested all the time. It wasn’t long before we heard the sirens fading away in the opposite direction.

  Peace restored, Ray twisted up a fatty, and offered some words of wisdom. “It’s important not to tell your friends about your plot.”

  “Enemies, either,” I said, adding another tip to my notebook.

  As I did, I couldn’t help but speculate about my upcoming crop. I doubted if Plastic Donald would be back, but I wondered who else might show up. After Ray’s initial reassurance, I hadn’t worried about crop security. After all, he’d been using the place for three years by then, and thanks to the dogs, nothing had ever happened. But after the attempted ripoff, the near-bust, and Mom’s visit, my equanimity was upset. I took solace knowing Donald was probably history. Also, that the Man would think twice about coming back. But, as Mom’s visit had reminded me, there was always a threat lurking in the background. In her case, it was the Red Menace. In mine, it was the Mad-Scientist-in-Chief for the CIA.

  Chapter 25

  Harvest

  We gathered in the living room and shared a couple of calming doobies, turned the records over, and pondered the situation. The Moody Blues and the killer pot helped us mellow out. With the lucidity that came from a good buzz, Ray announced his plan for increased farm security.

  “Johnny and Happy, do the afternoon watering with the girls. I don’t think Lolo and Plastic Donald will be back, but I’ll leave the rifle with you. Don’t let anybody come down that driveway.”

  “No problem,” assured Johnny.

  “Unless it’s Miss June,” I clarified.

  Ray took a few minutes to court-marshal his dogs. “You guys know what to do. Guard the perimeter. And don’t let me down again.”

  When questioned about the lapse in security, Deputy, who’d been in charge in Adolph’s absence, explained that the tasty people in the rape van had seduced the guard team with sedative-laced steaks.

  He shrugged, as if to say, “Who could resist?”

  “No excuses,” snapped Ray, before turning
the meeting over to Adolph, who really let Deputy and the other attack pets have it.

  Eva put in her two cents as well. No wonder they call female dogs bitches. Chastised, the team ran off to their battle stations, ready to redeem themselves.

  I told Ray, “I sure wouldn’t wanna be the next visitor.”

  “No shit,” he agreed with a bitter laugh. “Well, come on, Mikey, let’s go see the damage.”

  The rippers had only pulled a few girls. Still, more than enough to anguish my mentor. We looked around the plot. Except where clipped by stray bullets, the rest were unmolested, calmed now that Daddy had come to save them. The poor dears, if they only knew.

  “You got back just in time.” He gave me a look. “Well, almost.”

  “With friends like those, can you blame me for moving to Maui?”

  “Friends? How do you even know such a douchebag?”

  “Where do you think I get my false IDs and fake plane tickets?” Ray shook his head, then made up his mind. “Aw, screw it, I guess you’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “No need to gloat. I’ve told you before, no one likes a braggart.”

  “Right. What are we talking about, anyway?”

  “That it’s time to harvest. Not to boast, but in my modest opinion, this crop is the best stuff, well, ever.”

  “Really?” I asked, impressed by his vast humility.

  “Have you ever seen buds like this?”

  “Uh, no, but. . .”

  “That cinches it. Come on, let’s yank the rest up.”

  I rubbed my hands together. “This is so cool. You don’t know how long I’ve been dreaming about this.”

  “More fun than law school?” he asked with a knowing smile.