I’m growing tired of using my ten-speed bike and since I can ride a bicycle, I’ve come up with a brilliant idea, “Why not a motorcycle?” The only problem is money. Then comes the solution.
Sunny (a drug dealer from the bad old days) starts training at Murphy’s San Diego dojo. (Sunny was one of the two biggest pushers in El Cajon and always looked down on me and Doug.) It’s our Wednesday night class and I just nailed him good with a spinning heel-hook right in his solar plexus. Now that I’m able to take him down, his past condescending attitude has mollified. After class he approaches me, “Eh, Little Rick, sorry! I mean, Mr. Turner, how about I sponsor you to go with me up north to L.A. for a ‘friendly’ poker game to do a little business with your fingers, and we will split the winnings.”
I think about wanting a motorcycle. So, I tell him with a tinge of stifled guilt, “Yeah man, I’ll come and join the game.”
We did pretty well and my cut was 650 bucks. So I have some surplus cash and self-satisfaction after suckering those life-strangling drug dealers.