José wiped the rain from his eyes and tried to pick out which damp blur down the block was carrying a handgun. The possible concussion, along with the one bite he'd taken of the cookie, was making concentration just a little bit harder. "To hell with that," he thought. "I'm not letting this son of a bitch get away. It's so weird that people think of vanilla as an absence of flavor when it's a flavor of it's own. Oh, right. The gunman."
José had been picking up his weekly supply of edibles from Safflower and Rainbow's Hempatorium when he'd noticed the squidgy guy jittering things up by the hacky-sack display. Safflower was ringing up José's usual package of Budder, assortment of Ganja-Pops and a baker's dozen of Kush Krispy treats. Rainbow had treated José to a complimentary Hazy-o sandwich cookie when Captain Twitchy made his move.
First, he did his best to turn José's skull from convex to concave with the butt of his gun, which dropped José to the floor like a sack of wet cat turds. Then he reached across the counter and snatched the cash from the register. Safflower made a grab for him--most likely while saying, "Dude!" or something similar; José was too busy bleeding from his scalp to notice--and caught a bullet in her shoulder in response. The guy raced to the door like a sinister, armed gazelle. And he was gone.
Which was why José was running flat-out in the drizzle, chasing after a guy who'd already shown that he found shooting people morally acceptable. Normally, this level of exertion/danger would come with a paycheck attached. This time, José was doing it gratis.
He'd first walked into the Hempatorium six months ago, when a bulging disk sent him scrambling for a way to be able to lie down without simultaneously shitting his pants. José had never been much for the chronic. He'd always preferred an intoxicant that came with a distinct possibility of vomiting.
Safflower and Rainbow had showed him that weed could get him just as plowed as bourbon, but not make him take a swing at every third person he saw. They'd introduced him to pot that you eat, which meant he never had to slow up on his cigarette smoking. But most importantly, they'd showed him that not every hippie deserved to be drown in a bathtub filled with patchouli.
José had been a regular at the store ever since. He'd grown very fond of Safflower and Rainbow and they'd taken a shine to him as well. In fact, they'd given him his first hippie nickname, "Windshear." José had no idea what the hell that was meant to convey, but he'd been utterly baked when they did it, so he'd been touched.
His rage that this prick shot a friend of his helped José focus on staying on the guy's tail instead of pursuing the question of whether the rain that was falling on him right now maybe was once part of the river that carried Washington across the Delaware. The water cycle takes those droplets everywhere, man. No! The son of a bitch ducked down that alley. Get your ass in gear!
The gunman tripped and went skidding in the filth on his chest. José was nearly on him now. If he had a utility belt like Batman, he could have thrown some kind of bola to entangle the guy and keep him on the ground. How did Batman manage to keep all that shit on one little belt? Never mind that! The bastard was about to get up.
As the guy raised himself to his knee, José leapt at him and knocked him back down. "Why is Dave Brubeck my groove!?! Answer me, motherfucker!"
The gunman had no response to that. José cuffed him and dragged him back to the Hempatorium to wait for the cops. The EMTs were loading Safflower into the ambulance when José and the scumbag arrived. Safflower looked like she'd gained a bullet's-worth of weight, but nobody acted like she was going to croak.
José called to her. "Safflower!"
The EMTs paused in their loading as Safflower lifted the oxygen mask from her face and responded, "What, man?"
José looked at her solemnly. "I forget what I was going to say."
Happy Birthday, Beigey!
