Back before we started sizing everyone up by the mask they do or don’t wear at the grocery store, or even by the faction of a homeowner’s yard signs, Texans derived a much more graceful manner of indicating a geographical area’s political leanings—iced tea.
I’m not sure if other states have similar litmus tests. I’d love to hear from anyone who has observed such a phenomena elsewhere. But in the big, ole State to the South, the sweetness of the tea is a clearcut indicator of the political stance of the person and/or establishment drinking/serving said tea. I’ve found this method of determining political beliefs to be accurate around ninety percent of the time (much better than standard forms of polling or would-be-supreme-court-justice hearings). And you don’t have to get up in anyone’s grill to get your answer.
Here’s the bottom line: The sweeter the iced tea, the more conservative/Republican the establishment and most likely the geographical region containing said establishment. To be totally confident in an area-wide conclusion, you should test two to three establishments in close proximity. (There’s always the possibility of a rogue tea drinker drifting away from their roots and becoming a bit of a rabble rouser in a rival territory.)
You know you’ve truly entered a liberal stronghold when you order “sweet tea” and the wait person eyes you with extreme suspicion before pulling a sugar packet out of their apron and tossing it on the table. Make no mistake, this is meant as the highest form of insult. I mean, have you ever tried stirring sugar crystals into previously iced tea? It’s like the old Bible verse, “Once something has lost its saltiness, can it be made salty again?” The answer, in case you were wondering, is no.
Unsweetened iced tea can never sweet tea become. It is destined at best to be unsweet tea with sweet grit swirling in the bottom of the glass. If you are a conservative attempting to stir sugar into your unsweetened tea at an establishment, you can be certain everyone else is having a hardy internal laugh at your expense.
At the other extreme of the spectrum, liberals caught in a den of Republicans have a bit more graceful of an out. Order an Arnold Palmer (half and half lemonade and iced tea). Arnold Palmer was a self-declared “middle of the road Republican” who had too much integrity and charisma to allow himself to be sucked into ugly partisan politics. The beverage named after him remains a perfect reflection of Arnold as a man, a human, and an American. It’s a compromise that balances a bit of the sweet and a bit of the tart with the underlying bitterness that makes tea such a compelling beverage to begin with.
Me personally? Hey, some like their tea sweet. Some don’t. As a young man, mine was pretty dang sugared. As I aged and moved around the country and even traveled a bit of the world I learned to drink my tea as the locals did…while still relishing opportunities to raise awareness and challenge local conventions. Eventually, you guessed it, I settled into the Arnold Palmer as my tea flavor of choice. I let the host determine whether the base tea be sweet or unsweet. The addition of the lemonade ensures there’s always a respectful balance.
At the Desk This Week
I’ve outlined and begun episode four of season three of The Green Ones. I’m still playing around with the right balance for the relationship between the newly reintroduced Grisha Petrosian and my main protagonists. “Grish” is a character who appears in three of my series within the Schism 8 universe. He’s a complicated guy because he’s constantly appearing in different parallel universes, and each doppelgänger reserves the right to be a little different.
This is his earliest appearance in the “real” universe (the one that is based on our universe), so I want to make sure I nail his quirks and mannerisms. I also have to make sure he instills the right amount of suspicion in the reader. My favorite version of Grish is in the “Texicas” universe where he has clearly gone a bit nutty from decades of isolation and conspiracy tracking. In the “real” universe, I want Grish to maintain his sardonic wit while maintaining more of a air of genius and power. Here is to hoping I find the perfect balance!
The Road to Revolution, Scene 3 - 6
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
Chancho lay down in the mud and lapped water like a dog. After he finished, he waited several seconds for his image to reappear as the ripples calmed. Each week that passed left his face more gaunt, his eyes more hollow. He slapped the surface with his hand and sat back on a flat rock buried in the mud. Somehow his bones felt loose despite his tight, leathery skin.
He wiped water away from his whiskers with the back of his hand. Closing his eyes, he gazed up at the sun. Then, stiffly, he used his hands to push himself up. He wiped the mud off on his tattered pants and walked back to the Harley.
The tires were wearing thin, but they would hold a little longer…if he avoided sharp rocks. For the hundredth time over the last month, he thought about the previous owner. He wondered how the motorcycle’s fate would have been different had he not stolen it.
It still seemed a dignified machine despite the ignoble heap of items Chancho had lashed to its back fender: an extra gas can, a bedroll, a pot, and a coffee kettle among other elements of survival he had traded for with gold coins. A sturdy sombrero, a more practical sort than his last, topped it all off. With a sigh he put the hat back on his head.
Concerned about gas and tired of the vibration, he pushed the bike a mile further down the cattle and game trail he had been following since sunrise. Finally, he reached the designated meeting spot high up on a ridge overlooking the east. Since he was a few hours early, he rested his back against the trunk of a mountain cedar and fell asleep.
He dreamt of an oil field belching black smoke and scorched with flame. Derricks consumed to the point of matchsticks snapped and crumbled in the winds created by the hungry tongues of fire. Then the ground shifted with a great earthquake. The ground bulged, morphed, and pushed upwards until it unfolded inhuman legs and stood. Great clods of earth fell thunderously from the creature’s back as it unfurled completely. It stretched toward the heavens in agony and prayer. In his dream, Chancho felt the creature’s pain.
Stumbling, exhausted of its soul, the mountainous creature fell back to earth with a force so tumultuous Chancho jerked in his sleep. He clapped the back of his head against the tree, waking himself with a cruel headache. Rubbing the back of his head, he stood and walked to the edge of the cliff. He recognized the terrain from his dream as the miles of land stretching out in front of him. Suddenly, he understood the vision as prophecy rather than dream.
As sure as the rinche was coming for him, unstoppable and inexhaustible, a monster even greater than the ranger was coming to consume the land and bleed it dry. Chancho sat, hanging his feet over the cliff’s edge. He remembered the crowded derricks of Blondie—the place where his former life had come to rest. His troubles still pursued him, but his running neared its end. He would pay in full for his past mistakes.
He pulled the silk bag from his pocket. Soiled and slack, it no longer jingled. He emptied the last coin into his opened palm. A deep gash across the eagle marked it as the coin he’d lifted from Primitivo’s dead body. The coin seemed to be bound to the knot in his gut. The solitary presence of it forced him to retch.
More alone then he had ever felt as an orphan, he clutched the last remnant of revolution. The last promise of his dreams glimmered in his calloused and dirty hand. But what had the dreaming gotten him? He stabbed the terrain with dagger eyes, daring it to answer his question.
Nothing. No one. Putting the dream to death had given him purpose. For a month he had evaded the Ranger by sleeping with wild animals and hiding in holes. Strangers had provided basic necessities in exchange for gold coins from the Mexican revolution, coins pilfered from the arrogant and corrupt. But his strength had slipped away with each coin, and now there was one left. One damn coin.
And with no one on earth more interested in meeting him, to take that dream for good, clarity dawned on Chancho even as the sun set. The last coin—the last life left—should go to the rinche. With the lawman threatening reprisals against the people of Santa Polco, Chancho could not hold him off any longer. What more selfless act could he perform than to surrender the final remnant of his false dream to his worst enemy in order to protect the only people left in the world who cared about him? Thus, the moment of his defeat would guarantee the Ranger’s victory.
A rustling in the brush startled him from his thoughts. “Pepe, compañero. You are a good friend.”
“You look terrible.” Pepe sat down next to his new best friend. “Ooph, and you smell worse. You should take a bath.”
Chancho raised a brow. “Oh? And when was the last time you took a bath, mi amigo?”
Pepe smelled himself. “What? Like a week ago. I don’t smell as bad as you.”
Hoarsely, Chancho laughed, but he choked on the sound and ended in a coughing fit. “True, Pepito. You always speak the truth. That too is a good quality.”
“That’s not what Mr. Gomez says. He says I talk too much.”
Chancho nodded. “I suppose there is a time when saying nothing at all is best, better even than telling the truth.”
“But—”
“Why don’t you practice it first, and then decide what you think?” Chancho punched him in the shoulder. “Gracias for the supplies.” Chancho took the backpack from Pepe. “I’ll return the pack tomorrow.”
“But—”
“No, no. You need to practice. Just listen. I have an even more important job for you, the most important one yet.” He waited for Pepe to nod his head in affirmation. “I have one gold coin left—”
“But I already—”
“Uh, practice.” Chancho cut him off. “I know who I’m going to give it to. I’ve already decided. I cannot allow him to harm you or anyone in Santa—”
“The rinche?” Pepe froze in disbelief.
Chancho nodded. “The rinche.”
“But—”
“Your job is to tell him.” Chancho put his arm around the boy, who looked shocked and disgusted. “I need you to find the rinche or find a way to let him know, he is to meet me in Santa Polco tomorrow at five o’clock in the afternoon.” Chancho shook the boy lightly. “This is the most important part.” Pepe looked him in the eyes. “He must promise not to hurt anyone in Santa Polco, and I will turn myself in. Tomorrow at five o’clock.”
Pepe nodded slowly. “Can I talk now?”
Chancho smiled. “Si, mi amigo. You did good.”
“The rinche is a bad person, and you are a good one. You shouldn’t surrender to him.”
Chancho ruffled the boy’s hair. “Very clever once again. But, Pepito, sometimes when bad people do bad things, good people must do good things.” Pepe raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “If I let the rinche harm you or your mother would that be a good thing?” Finally Pepe conceded, shaking his head. “I know, it is a hard lesson. I am only now learning it.” Chancho helped Pepe to his feet. “So now you are smarter than me.”
“I was already smarter than you.” Pepe grinned and dodged Chancho’s playful punches.
“You rascal! Now give me a hug.” Chancho knelt and embraced the boy. A part of him wished he was Pepe’s father. That same part of him doubted he would ever have the chance to father a child of his own. He held him as long as he dared. “Now off with you. Go straight home to your mother. There will be time enough to find the rinche in the morning. He will not be far.” Pepe scampered away obediently. Chancho called after him, “But be careful!”
Silence settled over Chancho like a shroud, his end having been set in motion. Maybe it was not as serious as all that. He prayed God would allow him to fulfill Ah Puch’s dream yet, but he felt as if death had already claimed him.
Silence followed Chancho from the ridge to the valley and into the village of Santa Polco. Since his conversation with Pepe, he had spoken nothing out loud and remembered no noise of note. He left the motorcycle behind so that Pepe could go back for it later. It would be his final gift. Chancho smiled. The boy had promise with machines.
Chancho entered town from behind the church. He searched the opened windows for signs of life. Despite his desperate loneliness, he was glad to see the townspeople had disappeared. No doubt the word had spread to stay away. While Chancho hoped the ranger would not instigate violence, he did not know what to expect. He had made little attempt during the last month to understand the man who determined to destroy him. It had never mattered why, and Chancho figured he would never know.
When he finally stood in the dirt road, he realized why he’d chosen to surrender in Santa Polco. Discouragingly, selflessness had not been his motivator. He drank in the familiar surroundings. He had chosen them as an anchor to the childhood from whence his dreams had begun to flourish. Now that he stood among the adobe buildings, surrounded by the smells of the earth, he clutched tighter to the coin in his pocket. The town exemplified human relationships bound up together, while maintaining an easy relationship with their environment.
Chancho realized he had been rubbing the coin’s surface vigorously for the last hour—now polished from the oils in his skin. He clutched it. After a glance at the cross perched atop the chapel, he placed one foot in front of the other and made his way down the main street of the abandoned village.
Shattering the quiet, the bell behind him rang out the hour—five o’clock. He had not heard it ring at any other time. At the final stroke, the ranger rode into the street from behind the last buildings. With one hand he shaded the sun from his eyes. He held his pistola in the other. Chancho knew the weapon would be deadly from this range. Swallowing hard, he walked toward his captor.
Questions about Muddy and Nena consumed his thoughts. Were they alive? Were they caught? Knowing nothing more about their condition than when he had seen them last, he only hoped his surrender would bring knowledge of them. If his friends had not been captured, the Ranger would squeeze him for answers he did not have.
End well, Chancho repeated to himself. Even if he had no friends, he must be a friend. It was all that remained to be done. End well.
Impatient with Chancho’s slow pace, the rinche started toward him on horseback. Then he stopped. Chancho had not seen it until now, but life stirred inside the darkness of the tortilleria. Lightning fast, the Ranger raised his pistol. Horrified, Chancho threw his hands out in surrender, dropping the coin. “No!”
The glint of the setting sun from the falling gold coin flashed in the Ranger’s eyes. He fired once. Chancho’s body jarred sharply as his knees struck the hard crust of the dirt road. The gunshot echoed off the mountains in the distance. Chancho gasped a sharp breath, never removing his eyes from the shadows in the cafe.
A figure appeared there, and another behind it. “Chancho!”
“Pepe, no,” Chancho croaked.
Esperanza restrained the boy from running. Both of them walked slowly into the street. She whispered in the boy’s ear, keeping him close.
“There doesn’t have to be violence.” The Ranger encouraged his horse forward. “Just turn around and head back inside. I promised the boy I wouldn’t hurt you folk, but the promise is off if you get in my way.”
Chancho feebly waved them off. They ignored him, instead moving several strides closer to his side.
“This is your last warning.” The rinche cocked the trigger.
A soft rustling came from Chancho’s right where he and the Ranger turned to see Mr. Gomez step from his store. He held his hands open in front of him. Moments later, a subtle stirring aroused the entire village. Darkened doorways revealed familiar faces. Chancho heard the heavy wooden doors of the church swing open.
“Out of gas, stranger?”
Chancho strained to look behind him. He could not hold down a choking laugh when he spotted the burly Grady—straw hat and all—leading a flood of others from the sanctuary. From every building in town, people emerged. At a methodical, almost rehearsed pace, they drew neared to Chancho.
“The joke’s over!” The Ranger’s horse pawed nervously at the ground as the Ranger leveled his pistol directly at Chancho’s head. “This man is getting justice one way or the other.”
Before he could pull the trigger, Esperanza stood in the line of fire with her back to the Ranger. She opened her palm to reveal a single gold coin. Chancho looked around at the mob that closed in on him. Each of the people in the forefront held a familiar gold coin. Every one of his coins, every person he had traded with plus friends and family whom he had never met, surrounded him.
“Everyone back inside!” But the rinche had been forgotten.
With dirty hands, Chancho smudged the tears streaming down his face. Esperanza knelt in front of him. Her gentle scent of flour and butter embraced him. She placed her fingers beneath his chin and said, “Your kindness and generosity, even to strangers, has taught us that good people must do good things.” She lifted his gaze until they locked eyes. “And it is not just us. You have inspired thousands. They sing about you. We have made arrangements.”
She touched her hand gently to the spreading stain on his shoulder. “But first,” she nodded at Mr. Gomez who knelt beside her and unrolled a bundle of first aid supplies. After doing the best they could with the wound, Grady stooped down and hefted the Mexican over his shoulder.
“You’re lighter than a sack of feed, my friend.” He looked at Esperanza with concern.
“Come.” She ushered the entire crowd forward toward the Ranger, who continued to sputter with rage. As Chancho and the crowd approached him from one direction, an entourage of two dozen vaqueros and cowboys closed in from behind. Each of them armed, they leveled their weapons directly at him. Esperanza stopped three feet in front of the lone Ranger. “Ride away. It is your only choice.”
The Ranger swelled visibly with rage. He ground his teeth and sucking breath through clenched lips. “You win this round, but this greaser ain’t out of the woods.” He turned his horse and rode off at a deliberate pace.
After the Ranger left, Grady loaded Chancho into the back of a wagon where Esperanza and Pepe joined him. Grady drove the two-horse team toward the nearest train station, escorted by two dozen riders.
A large crowd cheered as the wagon pulled up to the train platform. Dazed, Chancho failed to understand it. Grady steadied the team while Pepe ran ahead to ensure a doctor got on board and that everything was ready. Esperanza silenced Chancho’s sputtering, “You have inspired people to get involved—to live life rather than watch it happen.”
“But the train, where am I—”
“To Austin. We are riding with you. The entire train is for you. The switches have been cleared from here to the capital.”
“Austin?”
“We will demand a pardon from the governor. He will have no choice.”
“But why? I failed.” Tears streaked Chancho’s pain-etched face.
“No.” Esperanza shook her head. A ringlet of dark hair whispered across Chancho’s cheek— her face inches from his. “Don’t you see? You’ve succeeded.” A tear of her own mingled with his. “When you first came to Santa Polco, you said you were in search of a different life.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. “You didn’t just find one. You created one for all of us.”
“What? The coins?”
“Not just the coins, you dense, silly man. The vision behind them.”
Chancho couldn’t believe the words he was hearing. How did she know about the vision behind them? How could anyone have known? And right when he had finally erased the revolutionary nonsense from his dream-addled head. He uttered one last pathetic question, “What vision?”
Esperanza rolled her eyes. “That if one person’s kindness could make a difference, together we could change everything. That our fears and doubts should not keep us from doing what we know to be right.”
“Oh.” Stupefied, Chancho closed his eyes.
“The Ranger is not the kind of leader we need.” She kissed him on the forehead.
“We’re ready.” Grady ducked his head into the back of the wagon. “Pepe found a stretcher to make it easier. Clever boy you got there.”
Esperanza blushed. “Here, help me, and we’ll load him. He needs a doctor. He’s getting weaker.”
In the open air, cheers and thunderous applause greeted Chancho. Several men streamed forward to lend a hand at carrying the folk hero’s stretcher. Much of the crowd were brown-skinned, but even more where white. A few Chinese huddled together at the back of the platform. Weak and flustered, Chancho managed to wave as the sea of humanity pushed him up the steps and onboard the train.
Esperanza directed the stretcher into a private car where a doctor waited. They transferred Chancho to the bed. Everyone but Pepe retreated under strict orders from the doc. Clinging stubbornly to the bedside, Pepe took Chancho’s hand and placed something cold into it. Finally he relented and joined his mother.
A song broke out among the crowd on the platform, but Chancho couldn’t understand the words. He focused on the object Pepe had placed in his hand. A golden eagle with a snake in its beak shimmered back at him. A gash ran across the face of the coin. It was his last. He clutched it to his chest as the doctor applied pressure to the wound. Eyes fluttering, Chancho passed out.
The view from Chancho’s third floor window at the Driskill Hotel included the governor’s mansion, Saint Mary’s Cathedral, and of course the State Capital. But the opulence of his hotel room distracted him from the view. He felt like he’d been dropped in a foreign world.
He fingered the drapes for the eighth time and turned to look at his disheveled bed. It was the plushest thing he'd ever come into contact with. Had he not been nearly unconscious when his new friends had helped him into it the night before, he certainly would have resented soiling it.
It was now nearly lunchtime on his third full day in Austin. He struggled to wrap his mind around the sudden changes thrust upon him. Most of the first night and day blurred together, highlighted by occasional snippets of Esperanza running her fingers through his hair…or nurses changing his bedpan. Yesterday morning he'd been escorted by a mob from the hospital to the capital steps. A rally had been in progress since his arrival by train.
After a hand shake with the governor, it was done. He held a full pardon. Only later, during the governor’s speech, did he realize the pardon included Muddy and Nena as well. It was a bittersweet victory, considering their disappearance after Blondie, and that technically the pardon covered them whether living or dead.
Whisked from the capitol steps straight to a celebration banquet and ball, Chancho posed for photos and shook hands while answering the same questions. “Will you honor us by running for the House of Representatives?” “Too bad you haven’t been a Texan longer, or we’d have you in the Senate.” What could he say? He’d never been to Austin, never seen the capital, had no idea what the legislature even did.
Seventy-two hours earlier, he had been determined to surrender to the rinche and forfeit his dreams. But now…he scratched his chin, finding it nearly smooth. He gazed at his reflection in the window and barely recognized the man he saw there. Sallow and haggard around the edges, the wear and tear of his month in the wilderness was obvious. The intensity and humility in his eyes startled him most. He had received a second chance for a second time.
He finally understood that dreams held repercussions. The mere dreaming of them changed the world. Acting upon them, well…acting upon a dream cost the dreamer everything. Chancho put his hand to the window—trying to feel the pulse of Texas’s capital city. Was he really doing this? Could he nourish the dream, draining his own life in the process?
He skimmed the pages of his life—the sun set over the Catholic Hills, the warm brush of a beautiful woman’s skin, good coffee, and stories shared across the fire. Everything hinged on two moments: Ah Puch’s death at Columbus and his moment of defeat in the village of Santa Polco. He had thought the former proof his dream of revolution had been false. Then the latter had shown him revolution could still be possible through sacrifice rather than force.
The dreamer’s very soul births a dream, his energy nourishes it, his life’s blood brings it to blossom. Jesus had summarized it brilliantly, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”
For the first time he felt the depth of the words, and he knew the answer. Born a dreamer, he would also die for his dream. He had only to learn humility to understand the dreamer’s sacrificial role. His was still the same dream—to liberate the land and its people.
Now the dream took surprising shape. Politics. He slapped the glass with his palm, breathed deeply, and stretched the ache in his shoulder. “Austin, mi amigo, we’ll do this together. ¡Viva revolucion!”
The telephone beside the bed rang as he shared his first official declaration of intent with his empty hotel room. He heard it on the second ring. “¿Hola?”
“Um, yes.” The voice on the other end addressed him with the same formal rigidity he had encountered frequently over the last twenty-four hours. “A lady and a small child are here to see you, sir.”
“¿Si?”
After a pause the voice continued, “Shall I send them up, sir? Or will you be coming down?”
“Ah, well, I’m not properly dressed, so just send them up.” Chancho stared out the window, still basking in his recent decision.
“Sir?”
“¿Si?” Chancho scratched himself.
“Very well. I’ll send them right up.”
Chancho hung up and then looked at his naked reflection in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. “Now, what to wear?” He opened the wardrobe. A tailored and freshly pressed tan suit with patch pockets and a faux belt hung on a single hanger.
Chancho zipped his pants as a knock came at the door. “¡Buenos dias!” He opened it to Esperanza and Pepe, both wide-eyed at their surroundings. “Mi casa es su casa.” He bowed with an elaborate flourish. “Almost makes the whole manhunt and getting shot thing worth it, si?”
Esperanza closed her gaping mouth and smiled.
“Are you rich now?” Pepe bounded onto the bed.
“Pepe!”
“Sorry, mama.” Hang dog, he crawled down from the mountainous bed.
Chancho put his arm around the boy while addressing Esperanza. “No really, we should try it out.” He slapped the bed with his hand. Esperanza raised her eyebrows. Chancho sputtered, “I mean, you know, for fun.” Esperanza blushed. “For jumping!”
Confused, Pepe looked up at them until Chancho changed the subject. “And there’s an indoor toilet. It’s amazing. I’ve used it four times.” He showed Pepe the handle and explained how gravity caused it to flush. Finally he turned back to Esperanza. “So, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Esperanza sighed, suddenly looking very serious. “We must go home today. Our train leaves this afternoon.”
Chancho felt the gravity of his recent decision settle as the thought of being alone tightened in his throat. He took her hand while keeping Pepe clutched to his side. “All of this is because of you. I would be in jail or dead if you had not stood up to him.”
Hugging him, she cried softly onto his good shoulder. “You have brought the village to life. Wildcatters have troubled us for months. We did not know how to stand up to them. Now we do.”
Chancho looked her in the eyes. “Really? I had a dream about oil and Santa Polco.” They stared at each other for several seconds. “Never mind.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve decided I will run for the House.”
Esperanza looked hurt and excited at the same time. “Really?” Chancho nodded. “You will win, and you will make a difference.” She released him, taking Pepe’s hand. “We’re glad you’re healthy, and that the governor pardoned you and your friends.”
“Thank you.” The thought of Muddy and Nena grieved Chancho. “I have to find them. I will leave for San Antonio today.”
Esperanza smiled nervously while backing toward the door.
“But I will come visit you soon, in Santa Polco.” Chancho waved his good arm around in the air to illustrate a whirlwind. “Elections are in a month. I know Santa Polco is not quite in my district, but I’ll make an exception.” He knelt down to look Pepe straight in the eye. “And for you, Pepito. I left a present for you at our meeting spot.”
Pepe’s eyes popped from his head. “You mean—”
“Chancho!” Esperanza stamped her foot.
“Of course you will have to listen to your mother, and do everything she says.” He smiled up at her. “But I can think of no one better to care for my motorcycle than you. Keep it in working order for me. Okay?” Pepe grinned. It was the same mischievous grin Chancho had seen in the church when they’d first met. “Now let’s go. I’ll walk you to the station.”
“But don’t you have to pack?”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot.” He grabbed the gold coin from the dresser and tucked his sombrero under his arm. “Ready.” Hand in hand, with Pepe tucked in between, the couple walked down the hall.
The boy piped up as they reached the steps, “Since the governor is paying for us, don’t you think we should have lunch first?”
Thanks so much for taking the time to read these scenes of Fistful of Reefer, Season 1 of The Lost DMB Files. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from The Lost DMB Files until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 400 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy The Lost DMB Files. Happy reading!