Three-Rivers accessed Mother’s 21st Century anthropological matrix and searched out Appalachian Marijuana cultivation by professor Eugene Swartz, Pen State University Press, 2157, reviewed the content in the blink of an eye—quite literally that is—and then blinked up at both of the men who stood dumfounded, as Gerald relit the half-smoked bud with his favorite lighter, the black one. He spread his arms with a smile.
“Sweet evening of dreams to you fellows. I am so fortunate to have found you. My squirrel—that would be Mister Gerald Hicks sitting on my lap here bogarting your dope—was jonesing something terrible. I think if we had not run into your finely cultivated acreage here he would have attacked another State Cop.”
The beady-eyed one snarled, “What in hell are you talkin’ ‘bout? What are you doin’ in our pot patch? And who in hell do you think you are—circus squirrel or no!?”
He gathered himself by crossing his arms and taking in a deep breath and then flashing his summer sun and winter blue eyes as the Oneness within brought forth Mother’s conspiratorial mind—entertain the fat one. Bend the thin one to your will—he is the sentient organism. Utilize them to your advantage and dispose of when convenient.
Mother, you shake the resolve of my goodness.
It is to the advantage My Sweet.
Father, she’s being bad!
Not him! Not while I’m having fun!
Fine My Sweet, Fine, I shall not insist on disposal. Please though, keep that condemning old ghost downriver.
He came forth from his communion with Mother as Gerald sat coughing—I did not know that squirrels could cough until just now—in a haze of cannabis smoke and the two young Whites stood as if hypnotized by his glowing sun-fire eyes.
Apologize. Their withered spirits would blossom in your kindly light.
Yes Father. I am so glad you are now present.
He could hear, in the depths of his mind’s eye, Mother’s high-heeled seduction moccasins click-clunking into the distance down some tunnel in his Oneness he had yet to locate, and somehow feared to plumb.
“Yes, I have been rude. I am Three-Rivers. They call me a ‘carney’. My show name is Thunderboy: renowned magician, Master of Squirrels, Summoner of Demons—though they do get out of hand sometimes—Talker with Animals, Walker with the Dead, teller of stories and singer of songs. I would like to trade the Whiteman’s CherryTreeKillerAncestor trade notes called money for this crop. Sorry to refer to your people in the third state of acknowledgement, but I do not know if you particular White Men had anything to do with the development of trade notes. I prefer wampum personally—or at least I do favor it on an aesthetic basis.”
The fat one growled, “Are you crazy kid. This is not ready to harvest, and when it is it will bring seventy-five thousand.”
Three-Rivers stood, spun on his heels as he placed his smoking squirrel on his shoulder, and spread his arms, heedless of the still leveled shotgun. “I will give you a million dollars now, transferred to your account, on that laptop you should have around here somewhere. I shall also throw in another million dollars for a backpack full of joints rolled with these little buds and a ride to Painted Post New York.”
The shotgun was shouldered as the two men looked at each other quizzically and back at Three-Rivers again.
They are so stupid! I would just kill them—they aren’t even worth toying with.
I know Mother—relax, back to your cushioned loveseat. I ‘have this’ as they say.
“So Whiteman, is it a deal or not?”
The fat one’s beady eyes flashed angrily for a moment but the smart—well, less stupid—one conceded, “If you can arrange a transfer I’ll roll the joints and Muncie here will drive you to New York. I warn you though if this is a trick I wash my hands. Understand?”
“Sure Mister Pensive Cheeks. Might I ask what your Whiteman-name-without-meaning is?”
The man hesitated as they all began walking back into the woods, and then answered, “I’m Brian. What are you some kind of Gypsy or something?”
Gypsies are ethnic Romany speaking nomads that spread from India through Southern Europe and settled in Spain and England before migrating to the USA. They are well known for petty property crimes and have a high level of cultural cohesion. In 21—
Thank you Mother. That is enough.
“Yes Brian, I am a Gypsy.”
He then did a Flaminco step and said, “My mother is beautiful,” in Romany, and said with a smile in English, “You see Brian. I dance too! So does Gerald.”
They were nearing a camp and Muncie was already growing weary from the combined stress of thinking and listening, so he just began to listen and let Brian think. The camp was small and nice, consisting of a large tent and a picnic table under a green canvas, with a small well covered campfire before the tent.
He leaped up on the table and set Gerald down for dancing as he searched Mother’s database for appropriate music that Gerald would dance to and these two would enjoy. He then spoke to Brian, “Do you have a mobile wireless link and an online music app?”
The man looked at him and scrunched his brows. “Yes I do.”
Three-Rivers was now in his newly configured ‘carney’ aspect. “Okay Brian, a show before I upgrade your software and make the deposit in your accounts.”
Brian looked over his shoulder. “How did you know we had separate accounts?”
“Because silly, it is the sensible conclusion and you are a sensible fellow.”
Muncie had set aside the weapon and was sitting beneath them on the bench when Brian brought the very nice laptop to the table. Three-Rivers gave Gerald his cue and they tapped their heels and tipped their hats. “Gentlemen, Gerald is an old school Soul and R & B man. In order for him to dance his best and you to enjoy the music I would like Mister Brian, our guest DJ, to pull up the Queen collection. First we shall dance to Another One Bites the Dust—Gerald’s favorite white-boy tune. We will then continue with Bohemian Rhapsody for Brian—yes, he is smiling—and finish our set with Fat Bottom Girls for Muncie!”
Muncie clapped and went to the tent and brought out a cold-storage box full of beer and passed a bottle to everyone, even the squirrel, as Brian brought forth the ghost of Freddie Fast Metal and his band…
A half hour later, after an encore performance of the dust biting song, and Gerald’s stirring rendition of Papa Was a Rolling Stone, the men were cheerfully clapping as the sun finally sank beneath the world’s edge. After a sweeping bow Three-Rivers, becoming a showoff now that he had a body that worked, a flawless Oneness within, and access to Mother’s acrobatic protocol, did a flip off of the table top onto the bench before the laptop, and then did a split as he pecked away. “Nice unit Brian—permit me to tweak your financials and generate avatars for us—do not worry Brian I am encoding the program now.”
The men sat wide-eyed as his fingers raced faster than the eye could see and his eyes blinked so fast that they did not appear to blink, but assume the color of the sun. He enjoyed dazzling people like this, and was almost sorry he was done upgrading the primitive computer after 45 seconds had passed and he had ‘maxed it out’ as Brian noted.
