Page 5 of A Long Con

“I am Satan! I am Metztli, goddess of the night!”

The girl behind me kept screaming, ruining the conversation I was having with this guy at the Pour House. We sat outside on the deck near the sailboats so as to attract less attention. I had a great view of the bizarre London Bridge plunked down in the middle of Lake Havasu City. But the chick whose name I didn’t even know was going apeshit.

“OK, brah,” I said, hunched over the foil-wrapped pile of white-clear crystals on the table. “I’m telling you, a dose can go for three to five bucks, so even a homeless person can try it.”

The Mexican guy I was enlisting wasn’t sold on it yet. “This is la flaca, beautiful woman. What is so beautiful about it?”

“Well, lots of things, moke. Have you tried bath salts, MDPV? The chemicals bind molecules on the surface of neurons.”

“Neurons?” asked the dealer.

I tried to be simpler. “The brain is flooded with good feelings.”

He raised his chin. “Like that girl there?”

“I am Mictian, god of death!” the girl shrieked. “I can’t stay in the sun because I fear its fire!”

A moke at another table guffawed. “Then leave.” Everyone around him laughed in agreement.

I felt the need for speed. “People have the strength and rage of the Incredible Hulk,” I told the dealer, putting it in terms he could understand. I folded up the edges of the foil bindle and slid it toward him. “Here. Try this free sample. You will see. We call it ‘gravel’ as well.”

“Like . . . the streets?”

I smiled warmly. I knew my smile melted the hearts of the coldest brah. “Right, like the streets.”

“Where does this come from?”

“It’s man-made,” I had to admit. “Synthetic. Now you be careful. It’s hard to control the dose. Start small.”

He pointed. “Did she start big?”

I didn’t look over my shoulder. The girl shrieked and babbled, and it sounded like Pour House employees were trying to calm her down. “I will sacrifice myself, with my face covered by a rabbit!”

“She might’ve started big. Deal, brah?”

Since I offered him a free sample, of course there was a deal. He said, “Gracias. We meet again?”

“Yes, but not here. Let’s meet up in Rough and Ready at The Happy Hour. You know where Rough and Ready is?”

While he pointed to the Mojave Mountains, an employee approached me. “Hey. Sorry to bother you, but do you know that girl?”

I still didn’t turn around. I shrugged. “Never seen her before.”

“Oh. Because people were saying she came with you.”

I shrugged again. “Sorry, brah. Don’t even know her name. Sounds like she needs help.”

We stood. Instead of shaking the dealer’s hand, I gave him the shaka hand sign, fingers folded into the palm, thumb and pinkie wagging.

He frowned. “Where you from?”

“Hawaii,” I said proudly. “I am The Samoan Slammer.”

I knew he’d have no clue about wrestling, so he said gracias again and we went out front, where he put his number into my phone. We had to pass the girl I’d come in with, who was now in the lobby yelling, “I am the God of this age! Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub!”

We breezed on past, and I straddled my Road King. I blipped the throttle just to feel the purr between my thighs. I folded my long hair into a scrunchie because I was too cool to wear a lid. I ripped it up toward the London Bridge because I didn’t want to get involved with that chick. I hadn’t realized she’d be one of those people who couldn’t even handle one line of flakka.

Not that I’m a heartless asshole. Don’t get me wrong. Seeming stiff and unemotional is a brain thing with me. I think I’ve gotten progressively better since nearly dying in the WWE ring in Kansas City. I have more heart, more sympathy for others. But hell, this was my job we were talking, my life’s sustenance, my only source of income. I couldn’t blow a deal with a subcontractor just because some chick I barely knew turned out to be the adult child of alien invaders.