Free Tim Dorsey Collection #1 by Tim Dorsey Page A

into a monkey’s head.”
    Coleman held an unlit lighter near the chicken. “Okay, when the smoke bubbles in the water, it’ll filter through the scouring pad, breaking it into thousands of even tinier bubbles. That increases the surface area of the gas in contact with the water, because the smaller bubbles have a shorter radius, which is squared and multiplied by four pi—whereas the larger bubbles have most of their volume on the interior of the sphere. The water scrubs the increased surface area, removing impurities and giving you higher THC content per airborne particulate. Hence, a smoother, more potent smoke. And now, in new chicken flavor!”
    “Where’d you learn all that?” asked Bernie.
    “Spent a year at Hillsborough Community College. Drugs were an incredible education. I learned all about physics, the metric system, jurisprudence, economics, agriculture, politics, pharmacology and home ec.”
    Sharon turned to Serge. “How come he’s such a numbskull about everything else?”
    “He’s like a savant,” said Serge. “The Rain Man of Dope.”
    Coleman shotgunned another beer and belched. “Enough batting practice.” He grabbed the chicken and leaned over it.
    “Stand clear,” said Serge. “Let the doctor operate.”
    Coleman flicked the lighter and pulled hard. A bubbling sound came from deep inside the chicken; smoke squirted out under the drumsticks.
    “Oh, man,” said Chip. “He’s fucked.”
    Finally, Coleman cut the lighter, pulled away from the chicken and inhaled deeply. He fell back in a sitting position. His face turned red and he put his hand over his mouth, but it was no use. The coughing came hard and furious, and he blew out all the smoke. The hacking went on and on. He rolled on the floor, grabbing his throat.
    A student rushed up with a glass of water, but Coleman refused it. “No,” he said, pushing the glass away. “Coughing gets you higher.”
    The fit finally subsided, and Coleman sat upright. A sugary glaze descended over his eyes.
    “Uh-oh,” said Serge. “Here it comes.”
    “How do you feel?” asked Bernie.
    Coleman looked slowly around the room. “High, stoned, hammered, bent, twisted, ripped, wrecked, wasted, trashed, annihilated, polluted, stewed, baked, fried, cooked, toasted, roasted, lit, torched, burnt, buzzed, blind, blotto, blitzed, blasted, blown, bombed, pie-eyed, glass-eyed, shit-faced, blue-faced, tight, booted up, hopped up, messed up, screwed up, goofed up, fucked up, numb, paralyzed, wired, knee-walking, wall-hugging, floating, flying, peaking, sailing, rushing, tripping, zooming, zonked…”

11
    E VERYONE WAS TRYING to console Jim Davenport. Martha drove him home after picking up a tranquilizer prescription written by a police psychiatrist. Jim sat in a daze on his porch swing, and Martha went inside to make some lemonade.
    Gladys ran over from next door. “Are you all right, Jim? I just heard what happened. It’s terrible!”
    Martha came back on the porch with a pitcher of lemonade. There was a commotion across the street. Coleman had taken a wild tumble down the front steps of the college students’ house, tearing off the side railing. The students helped him up. After they determined nothing was broken, they followed Serge next door and began playing with the Wham-O equipment.
    A Florida Cable News satellite truck pulled up in front of the Davenport residence. Correspondent Blaine Crease walked up to the porch with a microphone, wanting an interview about the killing of the vicious bandit Skag McGraw.
    Jim said he didn’t feel like talking. Blaine begged. Jim stood his ground.
    Blaine went across the street to see if any of the neighbors would agree to go on the air.
    “Sure thing,” said Coleman. He stepped up to the camera, and Blaine held a microphone in front of him. They began broadcasting live.
    “What is your name, sir?” asked Blaine.
    “Heywood.”
    “Heywood what?”
    “Jablowmey.”
    Blaine faced the camera. “We’re