So you’re sitting around blowing some lines on the coffee table with your buddy Ed. You’re using Monopoly money, as usual, because Ed thinks it’s a riot. It’s one of his “things.” There are thousand-dollar stacks of monopoly money all over his luxury hi-rise apartment in Cambridge.
You take a nice snort out of an orange 500, then look down nine storeys across the Charles river to Boston on the other side. There’s a red line train chugging across the MIT bridge, and a few sailboats drifting around. It’s not quite winter, but you wore your long black overcoat on the trip over to Ed’s place because it’s so fucking cold already. Maybe it’s late October or so. It doesn’t really matter a whole hell of a lot.
What matters is the knock at the door–never a good thing when you’re surrounded by bags of cocaine and stacks of monopoly money. You panic. Ed, well, Ed never panics. He sighs and opens the door–without even asking who it is or how the hell they got in the door and up nine flights without being stopped by the ex-marine concierge/security professional Bruce–and standing outside in head-to-toe black long underwear is Schitzo Fred.
He is some kind of Eddie Bauer catalog ninja in this brand-new black outfit and clean-shaven–a huge suprise. When he walks through the door you smell faint incense or something. Schitzo Fred says “hi” and you take a deep breath to prepare to say “hi” yourself, and inhale air that is pure marijuana. This wouldn’t be that unusual, but the bong is empty. It’s been a one-drug sort of day.
Schitzo Fred reaches into the crotch of his thermals, pulls out a brick of hashish. Unwrapped.
Ed smirks. “You wearin’ briefs under that, Freddy?”
“Nah. One layer, underwear. Enough.”