9. NINJA HIPPIE

By J.J. Colagrande

I found Sugar Bear. Sitting next to a bus painted with dancing bears.  My eyes zoomed in on a container also shaped like a bear, like an old honey jar. It was filled with a multi-colored powder. I’m looking for Sugar Bear! Who wants to know? And there sat this wook, so smug and complacent, with the antidote right out in the open. I’m Kurtis. Are you Sugar Bear? Go away, Kurtis. I hear you have some powder. I pointed to the canister on the table. My powder is not for sale, dread. He picked up the bear-concoction and held it like a trophy. I tried to be cool. Hey, bro–we’re all family here–All Good–no worries–hee-hee–I have money. I just want some powder. He snapped back–tell it to the judge, Kurtis–there’s no powder here for sale. The cat proved to be difficult, so I tried sincerity. Listen–my boy needs some of your sugar, he’s in the hospital, sick, very sick, and they say your sugar can help, so why don’t you help our family out. I don’t give a fuck about your family, Kurtis; if your friend needs my sugar, then he must have done something to deserve his condition. I exhausted all avenues, money, sincerity, friendliness–there was only one more option: Delta Force ninja time. Don’t make me take that from you. I took a step towards him. He didn’t buckle. Boys. He clapped and three of his friends that had been sitting around all rose up and circled in on me. They didn’t know the full extent of my trickery, and real quick I showed them the secret of Kurtis–old school skills–dormant, acquired from my days in Thailand. Boff whamm sock kapow splatt crash zamm a roundhouse a few punches and kicks klonk thunk whap zok zam whamm I broke it down in a minute–knowing the exact spot to render someone unconscious urkkk clank klonk clash I turned my attention back to the smug kid with Thelonious’s remedy. Don’t fuck with me, Sugar Bear–give me what I asked for. Mamma Cass, he yelled–and then the largest woman I’ve ever seen in my life appeared from behind the bus. She was huge. Sugar Bear stood. I’m sorry, dread–no one gets my sugar unless I’m told to give them my sugar–and you ain’t got the kind of money it takes. Mamma Cass, treat this young dread to some manners, show him some love. In the meantime, me and my sugar will be hitting the road. The scoundrel darted out of the trashed campsite, carrying the concoction. Meanwhile, this large woman bear-hugged me, deflating my esophagus of oxygen. Handling me like a sack of soiled laundry, she tossed me to the ground and sat on me. The other three dudes began to regain consciousness, while a group of neighbors hovered around us like a gallery.

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