He’d come from the grasslands of the west; a dusky sort, in both appearance and attitude. A veteran of both Vietnam and Wounded Knee, he carried the scars of his two sacred nations as well as their flags, the latter inked into his chestnut colored skin. He seemed an original, his raven hair in braids, his jean jacket covered in glyphs depicting mammals and raptors. When he spoke, the gruff notes rendered danced from beneath his ragged mustache and swirled through the air, searching for the knowing ears, for the believers.
“Big score last night” he said as we both leaned on the stair rail alongside Richter’s drugstore on the city's West Bank.
“Yea?” I was curious as to why he’d chosen me of all people to tell. We were competitors, the Medicine Man and I.
“Acid man, pure and sweet. Blue dot they call it. Seventy five bucks a hundred if you want some.”