The next morning it starts raining while I’m downstairs having breakfast. I tell myself that once it stops, I’ll go to the station and just catch the first train out. But the rain doesn’t stop and I’m up in my room with nothing else to do, so I open the windows and light up another reefer. And next thing I know, I’m flying high and next thing I know after that, I’m feeling the fear again. Have I stayed in Nacogdoches too long? Could Hamer be back on my trail. Could he be lurking around somewhere one or two blocks away, waiting for the moment to open up on me again, this time without any benefit of warning? This rainstorm may be the only cover Imo get. I decide what I need to do is put as many miles as I can between this place and myself.
So I pack my bags, carry them downstairs, pay my bill at the front desk,
and then I load them into the back seat of my Ford. At that point, my
plan was to drive to the station, ditch the car and get on the first
train heading out. But instead of going there, I see a sign pointing
south for Lufkin and head that way and I’m mentally slapping myself
on the back at just how dang clever I am.
Two hours into my drive, the rain is still coming down and the road is
mostly empty. I’m feeling so good about everything I decide this
calls for a reefer! It’s my last one and I was intending to save it
for later, but now I’m thinking, what the hell? This in itself is a
perfect moment that needs to be observed. So I take it out from my
pocket, stick it between my lips, grab a strike-anywhere match from
the carton in the glove box and light it. But before I can even bring
it to where I got the reefer stuck in my lips, the car blows a tire,
goes into a spin and goes off the road. And that, dear friends, is
how, two hours ago, me and this dang car ended up stuck in this
I’m stuck here, so I turn on the radio to see if there is anything worth
listening to. Once again, it appears the Blood of the Lamb loses to
the Gonad of the Goat.
"Can a man be… re-activated?” asks a husky female voice. “I need him to satisfy me just like he used to. Is there any hope?”
"Yes!” answers the friendly radio announcer. “Write today to the Brinkley Hospital, Del Rio, Texas, and be sure to enclose ten cents. Do it now!”
Absolutely! Do it now! Don’t wait another minute. And make sure the envelope is
postmarked before midnight tonight, because this is a special limited
offer and the supply of goat testicles is liable to give out at any
moment. Meanwhile, my reefer has gone out. I fetch another wooden
strike-anywhere from the glove box and rip it across the dashboard’s
surface. It bursts into flame and I bring it up against the long stub
of a reefer I’ve got in my mouth and start sucking the smoke into
my lungs, where it might do me some good.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah! My mood is definitely improving.
Just doing my job, answers the reefer, now just sit back and relax!
Then I take another good long hit and, oh, man, I am cooked! I’m not
sure if I’ve ever been this high. Maybe it’s a good thing this is
my last reefer.
Doctor Brinkley is once again addressing all his friends out in Radio Land.
"I know right now a lot of you folks are telling yourselves that you
can’t afford it. That you don’t have the money right now. That in
the current economic climate you can’t afford to spend a lordly sum
like eight hundred dollars for something that doesn’t actually put
food on your table. Well, folks, nothing could be more wrong. Because
nothing affects your economic well-being as much as your sexual
health. Ask yourself, how hard-charging can a gelding be? Why, just
today I received a letter that I have in my hand now. It reads, ‘Dear
Doctor Brinkley, I am writing just to let you know that, following
your surgery and recuperation at your fine institution, I have made a
full recovery and my wife and I are once again enjoying sexual joy of
a sort not experienced since our earliest days as a young buck and
doe. What I paid you was a reasonable sum, indeed, but what you have
given me in return has been truly priceless. Thank you, Doctor, and
God bless you!”
I stub the reefer out. Eight hundred smackers? That’s a fortune in
anyone’s book! That’s more than most people make in a year. In
this day and age with a depression going on, how can anyone afford
it? And for what? To con yourself into believing he can make your
Johnson ten hut and stay ten hut!
(Excerpt from Friend of the Devil, available on Kindle).