A Little Romance

In response to a question from a fan, this week’s excerpt from Maui Wowee, features a little romance for your author buddy Mike. Well, at least a step in the right direction. Living like a hermit in a hidden rainforest paradise, I didn’t meet a lot of girls. Unless they trimmed pot or went to the same parties. But now and then, I’d hook up with a girl from another scene. That would lead to awkward questions, questions I didn’t wanna deal with. Questions like: “What do you do for a living?” “How come you never invite me to your place?” “Why can’t I get a straight answer from you?” “Are you hiding something?” That didn’t stop me from flirting my brains out with every fox I met, as you’ll see in this week’s excerpt. And with girls like Noelani living in the Islands, can you blame me?

With Mother Nature nurturing our crop in the rainforest, I had plenty of free time. To get away from the constant rain, I’d spend a few days in Kona. While living there, I’d commuted often to the sunny side of Maui for diversion. Seemed ironic. There were two main airlines, Hawaiian and Aloha, and one or two smaller airlines, depending whether the fourth had just gone into or out of business. Of the smaller airlines, and there have been many, Royal Hawaiian was the only long-term survivor. I liked to fly them because the tourists they carried were far fewer and less stuffy.

Also ‘cause Royal Hawaiian’s prop planes flew at lower altitudes than the jets the big boys used—much better for enjoying Hawaii’s amazing scenery. If whales were breaching along the way, the pilot would take the time to spin around them, going lower still. Plus, they had some killer flight attendants. On one of those flights, the lovely Noelani sat her sexy self down next to me. Obviously, she’d noticed my coolness and couldn’t resist. It had only taken a year of clumsy flirtation. So, pretty fast by my standards.

“Howzit, Noelani. Nice of you to join me.”

She smelled like jasmine. I decided jasmine was my favorite smell and told her so. Girls love compliments like that.

“You smell, too,” she said, but forgot to make it sound flattering.

I gave her a mega-watt smile. “So, my charms finally got to you, huh?”

She chuckled, then said, “No, not really. But you left this in the restroom.”

She put something in my hand. I looked down and saw a buffalo head nickel with a coke spoon soldered onto it.

“Jeez, am I that obvious?

“Hell, yes, you’re that obvious. Sometimes you don’t blink for the entire flight.”

“Well, it’s only an hour long.”

She laughed because I was deranged. A little confused, I reached into my pocket, and after digging around, found my own buffalo head nickel coke spoon. Now I had one in each hand. Noelani looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and smiled, no doubt impressed to meet an ambidextrous coke freak. And, unless I was mistaken, a bit more interested. I laughed because I was the opposite of ambidextrous: clumsy with both hands. Plus, until my bartender buddy Shorty gave it to me the night before (oddly enough, he’d found it in the Chuck’s Steak House restroom), I didn’t have one of those spoons. I’d only accepted it from Shorty because I’m polite. When it came to blow, I preferred to tip some into the cap of my little glass bottle and get a decent snort. Those chintzy coke spoons never gave me enough. Know what I mean? They must have made them for pygmies. Or moderate consumers. Who knows? Generous to a fault when horny, I trumped her little gift with my bottle and ended up with Noelani’s phone number. Cocaine sometimes provided the charm my natural appeal did not. Did I let that bother me? Are you kidding?

A week later, after a fun weekend together in Honolulu, Noelani said, “Why don’t I spend next weekend at your place on Maui? I want to see where you live.”

“I live in the rainforest, Noelani. Trust me, you don’t wanna go there.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ve stayed at the Hotel Hana.”

The Hotel Hana was the nicest hotel in Hana. Also, the only hotel in Hana. Nothing fancy, not even televisions, but they made up for it by charging a fortune. With its tiny golf course, mown lawns, and pest control (meaning far fewer cockroaches per room), the grounds were a far cry from Happy Valley.

“Happy Valley is not the Hotel Hana. Tell you what, Noelani, we’ll stay at my buddy Tom’s guest house on the beach. You’ll like it there better.”

“You’re not hiding something, are you?”

Yes, I sure was. Two thousand somethings, but I left that unspoken. Read Maui Wowee to find out what happened to Noelani, the two thousand somethings, and the Happy Valley Hui.

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Security at Happy Valley

With a marijuana plantation as large as ours came a lot of risk, and security at Happy Valley was a big concern for the Happy Valley Hui, same as it was for all pakalolo growers. Ripoffs were rife and narcs were on the loose. So were pigs of the wilder persuasion. Bottom line, my partner Ray decided we needed security at Happy Valley. . .and lots of it. Read today’s excerpt from Maui Wowee and see what I mean.

With a couple thousand stunt plants in flower, we were stoked. Looked like we’d pay off our initial investment; even receive a nice bonus for our good deeds. In Kona, I’d averaged a quarter pound on plants I picked in the spring. But Kona had a sunny winter, just the opposite of the rest of Hawaii, and I wasn’t sure what to expect in rain-soaked Happy Valley. A quarter a pound average here would yield five hundred pounds. A huge crop at the time, even for long season. I’d tried a few times, but the only one I knew who’d successfully pulled off multi-hundred pound crops was the Duke, and it looked like this year I’d finally surpass him. King Mike? That had a nice ring. Emperor Mike? Even better.

Not that I was power mad or an egomaniac, but I wanted bragging rights. We’d aimed high. And why not? We had the perfect place. Sort of. More sun would’ve been nice. Less centipedes? Also, nice. Same with the other varmints and the mildew, and, well, you get the idea. Happy Valley in winter wasn’t the most cheerful place to live, but with two locked gates protecting entry, no unwanted visitors showed up. That right there was worth a big smile. But first, enjoy this shot of the security at Happy Valley.

Featured: Adolph, Happy Valley’s Chief of Security, at play. Imagine when he was angry.

Of course, we never knew when that might change. Weird stuff happened to marijuana growers. For safety’s sake, and ‘cause he had a dozen attack-trained pets, the militant Ray came up with a plan. Naturally it involved the dogs, a dozen of them, but also us walking around with rifles, patrolling the grounds. A pacifist, I didn’t care for the plan. I couldn’t picture myself blowing someone away over herb, but Ray, having spent his rebellious student days blowing up military academies, not to mention a few years as an attorney, had no qualms. He’d learned his share of battle tactics, and insisted on readiness.

First, a word about Ray’s dogs. He’d imported (well, smuggled) the first white German shepherds to the Islands, scoring them from his pal Rutger, a mercenary/gun runner/drug smuggler he knew from school days. Rutger, from a prominent family of South African fascists, had spent a few years training dogs in the art of attack and bigotry for the South African military and offered to trade Ray two pups (Adolph and Eva) for some pakalolo.

When I’d first met Ray and his dogs I’d asked, “Adolph and Eva? Isn’t that a bit, you know, racist?”

“Hitler spelled his name with an f.”

“Still.”

“What would you name him?” he asked, pointing at Adolph’s tidy brown mustache. “Despite their names, my dogs aren’t bigots.”

“No?”

“Although they do love ethnic food.”

Let’s just say, I was glad I tasted bland. Not that I didn’t attract my share of cannibals. Ray loved those dogs, so when he stationed them at strategic posts around the property they enjoyed deluxe accommodations. We cleared long runs through the jungle and hung overhead wire. Attaching leads to those, the dogs could run a hundred feet or so. Even with the home team’s trucks, they raised a racket. And when they did, it sounded like the dogs of war were coming to get ya. Anyone who didn’t know them well would shit their pants. Then, embarrassed and uncomfortable, quickly drive away. Or so I hoped, because I did not want to shoot anybody.

Each station had a camouflaged shelter built off the ground. Its walls and roof were made of visqueen that we’d coated with black, green, and brown spray paint. With a sheet of foam-covered plywood raised three feet off the ground, a sleeping bag, a mosquito net, and a kerosene lantern, it wasn’t a bad place for a grower driven crazy by peacocks on his roof to spend a night–let alone a doggy resting between patrols. It was certainly quieter than the house. We had a half dozen of these stations scattered around and changed the furry guards often so they wouldn’t get lonely. On clear nights, I’d sometimes camp in one of the shelters with Rocky. Me reading by Coleman lantern, Rocky looking at me, probably thinking, “What a nerd.” Out there, miles from the closest neighbors, we loved the solace. Not that we were alone. The rainforest at night was alive with the sounds of scurrying feet. Many, many hundreds of them at a time. Given what was down there? Rocky appreciated distance from the ground as much as I did.

Hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Be warned, Maui Wowee is due to launch in mid-September. I hope you’re ready. Meanwhile, if you haven’t read any of my other books, you can find them all on Amazon and the other booksellers.

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Obstruction of Justice

Obstruction of justice? That sounds serious, even worse than collusion. Which is what I told the Donald during our round of golf yesterday. I’ll try to recall our conversation, but when I’m around the President, I have to smoke a lot of pot because, well, you know why. . .so don’t quote me on my quotes.

“Collusion is bad enough, Donny, but obstruction of justice? That could be big trouble for you and Jr.”

Ignoring the obstruction of justice comment, the President went into a rant. “Collusion? What collusion? There was no collusion. That’s a rigged Witch Hunt. See how I said that with capital letters so you’d know it’s true?”

“Very convincing, if I ignore Michael Cohen revealing you approved the meeting at Trump Tower to get dirt on Hillary. Almost as convincing as the six birdies on the front nine.”

“Heh heh, another new course record for your President! And besides, if there was some collusion, and I’m not saying there was. . .all right, maybe that one time with Don, Jr. and that Russian babe, and some with Paul Manafort, and some other stuff with. . . well, that’s not the point.”

“Really? Then what is?”

“Collusion’s not illegal. Just ask Rudy.”

“Yeah, Rudy Giuliani, AKA: Nosferatu, is real credible. Jesus Christ, Donald, what’s going on with his teeth? Don’t you pay him enough to get them cleaned?”

“That’s his signature style, like Geraldo with the capped teeth and giant mustache.”

“He might wanna change his style a little. Also, get a new job. I saw him wiping the flop sweat off his face trying to cover for you. He’s obviously cracking from the stress. I don’t know how much longer he can hang in there.”

“Ha! I go through lawyers almost as fast as Big Macs.”

“There may not be a federal statute regarding collusion, Donny, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Same with conspiring with a foreign government to meddle in our election.”

“Seriously? You’d think my lawyers would say something.”

“Yes, I would, not that you’d listen. Then there’s interfering with Mueller’s probe into Russia hacking our election. That’s obstruction of justice.”

“You heard Rudy saying if I obstruct justice in public with my Tweet to Jeff Sessions that’s okay.”

“So, it’s only bad if you obstruct justice in the dark?”

“Hey, I’m not the legal expert here, I’m just saying, I’m above the law. Which is why I’m giving myself this ten-foot putt. Hey, you see me wow them in Philadelphia? I got the Qanon crowd in my pocket, baby!”

“I saw you tell them they needed I.D. to buy food. I bet that was a surprise to them.”

“How was I know you could use wire transfers.”

“I guess Paul Manafort could have told you. That’s how he shopped.”

“It doesn’t matter what I say, the people in my crowds aren’t deep thinkers. Except when it comes to those lunatic theories I promote. What’d you think of Pizzagate? Pretty wacky, huh?

“No kidding. So your strategy for re-election is to cater to the lunatic fringe? Rile ’em up so they attack the media?”

“It’s worked so far. Everyone with any common sense, from the Intelligence Community on down thinks Russia is America’s enemy, but my crowds know it’s the fake news media.”

“You mean Fox?”

“Not funny, Mikey, you leave them out of this.”

“Am I your enemy, Donald,” I asked a few minutes later as I was about to chip one onto the green. “Because if I start shanking everything, we’ll lose this match.”

Donald put up his tiny hands, said, “Of course not, Mikey, I’ve got no beef with you. After all, no one believes a thing you say.”

I sighed. “I hate to admit it, but we have something in common, after all.”

If you like political satire and laughing out loud, you should read my books, starting with Breaking Good. If you haven’t already grabbed a Free Copy, here’s your chance. You know what to do.

For a peek inside to whet your appetite, check out these story scenes from Breaking Good!