Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Preppy shakes the man’s hand. “I didn’t think the locals would appreciate this being too close to town. Although the medical part might be legal and they might agree with it in theory, there is still too much of a stigma to risk a misguided group of conservatives gathering their pitchforks and storming the field, burning my crops to shit in the middle of the night.”
“Smart,” the man says.
“Would you care for a sample?” Preppy asks, nodding to the unicorn one-hitter still in my hand.
“I would. I would,” the man says eagerly.
I pass it to him, and he takes a long hit, keeping his eyes closed as he blows out the smoke. “It’s so smooth,” he says, finally opening his eyes.
“That’s only a small taste of what we have going on here at Clearwater Brothers’ Farm,” Preppy says proudly, slapping me on the back.
“Clearwater Brothers?” I ask Preppy frozen in shock. The money I invested with that shit Jared was supposed to make me enough in interest over the next couple of years to buy into the business. I don’t want shit given to me. I’ve always worked for what I have, and I’m not about to take shit just because we’re blood.
Preppy ignores me. “Governor Jenkins, have you met my brother, Nine?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” he extends his hand, and I take it. “Great to meet you. Governor Joshua Jenkins at your service.”
“Governor?” I ask, watching as he takes another hit.
The governor smiles. “We will get recreational cannabis passed as soon as we can. Until then, if anyone asks, and according to my quack of a doctor who I pay a lot of money to give me the diagnosis of my choosing, I have glaucoma.”
“Glaucoma, it is,” I say with a smile. I decide that now is not the time to tell him that glaucoma is not on the list of diseases that medical marijuana is legally allowed to be prescribed to treat.
“You know, with all the shit you’ve been through, Preppy, you can get yourself a medical card and list post-traumatic stress disorder,” the governor says.
Preppy pulls out his wallet. “Nah,” he hands the governor the green card.
The governor laughs. “Crohn’s disease? You’d rather tell people you have a debilitating case of the shits than claim PTSD?”
Crohn's disease, also not on the list.
“PTSD means a lot of questions about what happened to me and why, and I don’t much care for those,” Preppy responds, taking the card back and shoving it back into his wallet. “Besides, I don’t need a shrink. I got Dre.”
“That wife of yours. She’s a good one,” the governor says. “I lost my first wife because I was a shit and forgot to actually court her. Date her. Take her places. Make her smile. Now, I look back and think about how simple it would’ve been just to be there for her. Show her that I understand. Find out what she needed most from me and just given it to her. Even if I knew it was still going to end, at least, I would be happy knowing I made a difference in her life and that the difference was for the good and not a shot of penicillin because hubby likes hookers.” He wags his finger at Preppy. “You gotta hang on to that one, by force if necessary.”
“That’s the plan, Gov,” Preppy agrees. “Sans penicillin, of course.”
The governor nods. “Of course.”
“When do you think you’ll be ready to harvest?” The governor asks, moving to stand between me and Preppy. The three of us gaze out over the vast field and years of backbreaking hard work.
Preppy looks to me to answer.
“In the next couple of months. We have processors coming in to get it all wrapped up and ready for distribution,” I say.
“Excellent. If this all works, you better start looking for land for more fields.” The governor shakes both of our hands. “Nice doing business with you boys. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Denny, the field manager, drives up in his golf cart. “Denny, would you mind giving the governor a ride to his car?” I ask.
“Sure thing, boss,” Denny says.
“Thank God. It’s hot as balls out today, fellas,” the governor says. He gets in Denny’s cart, and with a wave, they’re off to the other side of the field.
“I need to ask you something,” I say to Preppy, the governor’s words on my mind.
“No, I’m not going to tell you where I stash my good coke,” Preppy deadpans without looking up from the book he’s reading. “Besides, it’s under lock and key, so you won’t be able to get to it even if you know where it is. Good parenting and all that.”
“No, it’s something else.”
“I’m all ears and huge cock,” Preppy says with a wink, waving me onto continue.