Just north of D.C. while I was coming back from Arlington this morning, I pulled up behind a Porsche, a new nine-elven four-door. I don’t remember what color it was. I was trying to get up beside it to see who was driving the car. I’m doing research for the Harm City Project and must make sacrifices.

It had a vanity plate that was spelled in all caps ISCKDCK.

I did get up beside her, I was curious if it was male or female—down in D.C. it could be either one.

Mid Thirties-early forties, woman brown hair, sunglasses—Caucasian, a seven on a one-to-ten scale.

That’s not the kind of thing I talk about with old military friends. Besides, while most of the Harford County Boys go into the army, I joined the navy. After the hostilities, my MOS changed and I had to fly back to Norfolk. I shipped out but flew back. These Iraqis had tons of dope—the country was just awash in it. Myself and any other service man that was shipping out—at least the people I knew—would get offers to have heroin loaded into their duffle bag. I didn’t go for it, but some guys did. You just walk back into the states without going through customs. You have a contact number, you go to the address and you get paid.

Good Lord, what a world.