Saturday, July 2, 2011

Vignette 5

           There are some important lessons in life that I’ve learned. Like, a flashbang isn’t interchangeable with a party popper. A Clockwork Orange isn’t a children’s movie. Elevator maximum capacity 1000 lbs. means, elevator maximum capacity 1000 lbs.. But, the most important lesson is don’t take a job in a bakery.
            When I was 15 the idea of working at a job with little supervision and little to actually do was real appealing. All I basically had to do there, was set the oven to the right temperature, put a already prepared tray in said oven, set a timer, and then take it out went the timer went off. There was a sheet of paper that had all the information that I needed on it, so the job was idiot proof. Of course the fact that I could eat as many cookies, doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, cupcakes, nut rolls, and other pastries that I wanted; was also a good incentive. Which is why I gained 170 pounds in a year, which made me the only 335-pound sophomore in the tri-city area. But, that’s not why I shouldn’t have worked there. I wonder if the bakery has any openings? No. Because what happened there might happen again.
            The day started out as any other day at the bakery did. I praised the gods in the heavens for the fact, that the ovens and timers used dials. My obese digits would never have been able to press buttons in close proximity with one another. I remember before the incident happened, I had consumed 13 doughnuts of various varieties, 5 cupcakes, 15 lady locks, a chocolate cake, two dozen cookies of various varieties, and a cheese Danish. I was waiting for some lemon bars to get done baking when they forcibly entered. I would have done something to stop them right then and there but I didn’t feel like getting up. The leader of the group grabbed my XXXXL shirt by the collar and managed to stretch it out.
            “Do you know who I am?”
            “Should I?”
            The crusty old man gazed into my eyes. The gaze penetrated me, like it was looking past my blubbery exterior, into my very soul. Only seconds past, but I felt like he knew me better than anyone else has ever know me. That wasn’t really hard, given the fact that nobody wanted to know me. Probably, because I pointed out everyone’s flaws and stole dogs that were alone in yards, to train them for my canine football team. But, that doesn’t matter because this codger had pierced my cholesterol-clogged heart. I waited for him to kiss me, because despite his craggy face, his lips looked soft. Now, I wasn’t gay or confused about my sexually then. It’s just that I thought nobody would ever kiss me, so as the cliché goes: never look a gift horse in the mouth.
            “There is no way that you don’t recognize the most feared criminal in all of Ambridge.”
            I almost didn’t respond, because of my disappointment.
            “Ambridge isn’t anywhere near New Kensington.”
            “That doesn’t matter, you glob. My reign of terror is the stuff of legends. My name brings fear and respect from McKeesport to Zelienople.”
            “You haven’t told me your name.”
            “That’s because, you should know it.”
            “You want me to recognize you, based on appearance. I clearly don’t. To try to get me to know who you are, you tell me about people fearing your name. That’s not going to make be visually recognize you. It seems like you decided to switch from facial recognition to name recognition. But, since all the information you are giving me is failing to make me know who you are, you should just tell me your name. Maybe, after hearing it, I will know who you are in fact are.”
            “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You should just know.”
            “I’m afraid, I don’t.”
            “Hey Jason, tell this fat piece of work, who I am.”
            “He’s The Mean One, the greatest criminal mind of all of Ambridge”, said the least stupid looking of the man ruining my shirt’s underlings.
            “The Mean One? Now, that can’t be your real name. That sounds like a lame nickname.”
            “That is my real name. Tell him, that’s my real name, Leon.”
            “In his high school yearbook, he’s listed as: Mean One comma The”, said the most stupid looking of the man ruining my shirt’s underlings.
            “Ok, your real name is what ever you want it to be. But, it still doesn’t ring a bell.”
            “How can this fat bastard not know me? Not only am I a master criminal but I’m also a member of the shock and awe of the gridiron: the ’56 team.”
            “’56 team?”
            The old man jumped back and ripped his crumpled suit off, revealing an old high school football uniform with The Mean One written on it.
            “The Ambridge High football team of 1956; the single greatest team to ever play the game. We didn’t just become state champions; we took on all comers and won. Professional football teams, college football teams, peewee football teams, prison football teams, Soviet agents, natural disasters, and gaggles of geese fell before us. They built a museum to honor us and all the players except me are there in their original poses.”
            “They’re in the museum in their original poses? Did the city council kill, stuff, and put them on display?”
            “No, you moron. To show the world their greatness, the players put themselves on display in the football poses that correspond to the positions they played. Thumbs McGee was the quarterback.”
            He stood tall, put his right arm back like he was getting ready to throw a football, and had his left arm outstretched.
            “Hips Miller held the ball for punts and the kick off.”
            He got down like he was readying a football for kick off.
            “Quick Bradley was a halfback.”
            He turned and put his arms out like he was catching a football thrown from behind him.
            “Bones Cracken always made spectacular catches.”
            He jumped into the air and put his arms out in front of him. He crashed into the floor and his underlings rushed towards him, to help him up. He pushed them away but the most stupid looking of the two still tried to help him up. He was blasted in the face.
            “I was just trying to help you”, said the most stupid looking of the two, through tears.
            “I don’t need help. I’m a real man, unlike you and your brother. Now that I got tubby here fearing for his life, I’ll go get what we came for. You two numbskulls watch him.”
            The old man disappeared into the next room. The two underlings, whom I assume are his progeny, sat down in front of me. Their job was easy, since it would be hard not to see me.
            “I’ll tell a story to pass the time”, said the least stupid looking of the two.
            “Not another one of your bullshit stories”, said the most stupid looking of the two.
            “Shut up, Leon! You better not interrupt my story or I’ll bust your face up. So, back in ‘79 I was at the Tic Toc Bar in Ambridge having a drink with my buddies. These guys from Aliquippa come in and act like they own the joint. They start being their typical jerk Aliquippa selves and have to start something. Me and the boys decide to kick their asses, so we jump them in the bar. Soon the whole place is brawling and it spills out into the streets. People start coming from both sides of the bridge and join in. So, now you have Ambridge kicking Aliquippa’s collective ass. We beat them back onto the bridge and then the damned cops show up. The pussy Aliquippa cops try to break the fracas up. The Ambridge cops start pounding on them for good measure. The bridge is getting covered in blood, I mean it’s pouring over the sides. When we were done beating them up we dragged their unconscious bodies across the center of the bridge and left them there. There was one of those Pennsylvanian historical plaques on the outside of the Tic Toc commemorating the event but those Aliquippa punks stole it’, said the least stupid looking, but probably the most stupid, of the two.
            “I like the addition of the blood spilling off the bridge this time”, said the most stupid looking of the two.
            “I just forgot the last time. Plus, how would your dumb ass know anyway? You weren’t there, Leon”, said the least stupid looking of the two.
            “I know that you made it all up. I also know that you’re a jerk”, said the most stupid looking of the two.
            “How am I a jerk”, asked the least stupid looking of the two.
            “There was that time we were out partying and you got home first. As soon as you opened the door, The Mean One punched you in the face. Instead of warning me, you let him punch me in the face when I finally got home”, said the most stupid looking of the two.
            “If I had to get a fist sandwich with a side order of cracked teeth, you had to get one too”, said the least stupid looking, but most mean, of the two.
            “I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you here? I mean, New Ken is an awful long way from your run down burgh. So, you must have, what I assume, is a good reason for being in this bakery, today.”
            “Did you just mock, the great city of Ambridge”, asked the least stupid looking of the two.
            “Well, it is pretty crappy. I’ve never been there but I’ve heard bad things about there.”
            “They were all lies. And those lies were probably spread by Aliquippa punks”, said the least stupid looking of the two.
            “Could you just tell me why you’re here?”
            “Only The Mean One knows”, said the least stupid looking of the two.
            “Fair enough. Now, would you be a dear and cram a cinnamon roll into my mouth?”
            Before he could answer, the old man came back with a bundle that I’ve never seen before in the bakery. He grabbed both of his underlings’ by their ears and dragged them out of the building.
            To this day, I do not know what they took. All I do know is that despite the yummy pastries, I will never work at a bakery again.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Pocket Nukes not Recommended for Children Under Six

             I’ve done it. I’ve finally done it. Every jerk that can string more than two words together have been telling me for as long as I’ve been able to use a toilet and phone at the same time; that it would happen. I refused to believe that it could happen on the principle that I’m more awesome than a kid whose parents named him Awesome. Which actually goes without saying, since anyone named Awesome would be a lameoid whose parents had the forethought to hate him since birth. Oh yeah: the thing I did is shot myself with an arrow.
            I put the arrow on the string, brought the bow up, aimed, pulled the string back, and the arrow entered my neck. I would have been really pissed off at this but I noticed that an ample amount of my blood had relocated itself on to my very own pocket nuke that the Crisis And Solution Authority really doesn’t need to know about.
            Funny story about how I got that cute little treaty-violating nightmare waiting to happen. I won it from a junior baseball team. Okay, I didn’t win it, I used the fear inducing power of an aluminum bat to make them declare make the winner forever, and I going to keep that to them. Now, I know you’re saying: Brandon they had a miniature nuclear device and you let go of a metal bat as soon as you hit something, you big girl. I take offense to you calling me a girl. I’m way over eighteen; so you better call me a woman. And while they did have more power than me, I also told their parents that they were trying drugs and looking at girly magazines. The power of parents out way the power of a five-megaton explosion.
            Now I’m going have to buy a new bottle of Blood Be Gone. The only reason it got blood on it is because I keep in on the coffee table in the archery range that use to be my living room. I know that if I put in up in the attic with my other weaponized war crimes I’d just forget about it. And, what’s the fun of a nuke if you don’t always remember that you could just burn your enemies alive whenever you find a way to do it and not get caught.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Vignette 4

            “Let me get this straight. We have a swear jar in our super secret headquarters?”
            “I’m glad The Boss is finally taking steps to improve the workplace.”
            “According to the chart, each swear word has a different amount attached to it. But, I’ve notice it’s lacking some words.”
            “What words are those?”
            “Wop, cock, cunt, pussy, spic, and the one I can’t believe isn’t on there.”
            “And what swear word is that?”
            “You can’t put the n-word up on the chart.”
            “Why? It’s just a word.”
            “But, it’s a horribly offensive word.”
            “It’s not any worse than most of the words of the chart. Now, I think that both nigger and nigga should be added. Now, nigga should be less money because it’s the more laid back version. People use it to greet one another, so it’s the socially acceptable version too. Nigger ends in a hard sound, which gives it a malicious quality. Ah is a nice smooth sound, a lot easier on the ears. Er is like a verbal stabbing, with its sharp sound.”
            “There is no difference. It’s just the same word pronounced two different ways. Look, it’s a racial slur; it attacks the very being of a person. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, Downard.”
            “Hey Kevin, you’re black, let me ask you something. Shouldn’t nigger be on the swear chart. And also shouldn’t nigger and nigga be two separate entries on the chart with two different dollar amounts?”
            “Did you just say; nigger?”
            “How dare a little white boy like you say that word to me.”
            “I wasn’t calling you a nigger, I just said the word nigger. Now, nigger’s a pretty bad swear, so I’m thinking that it should be just as much as the f-word.”
            “Quit saying nigger!”
            “How can I talk about the word nigger without saying it?”
            “You shouldn’t be talking about it in the first place, honky.”
            “I’m just saying that nigger should be on the swear chart.”
            “Shut the fuck up!”
            “That’s five dollars.”
            “I’m not putting five dollars in the damn jar, bitch. Especially, since this asshole has got me pissed off.”
            “Now you owe 10 dollars.”
            “This whole swear jar thing has really got you both bent out of shape. I’ll lighten the mood by telling a joke. What’s the difference between a dead black man in the middle of the road and a dead dog in the middle of the road?”
            “I dare you to say the punch line, dickhead.”
            “That’s a dollar added to the amount you already owe. And, could you please stop swearing?”
            “In regards to the dead black man; the police and the coroner will have to show up before the body is moved. Now, in regards to the dead dog; the body won’t be removed until the road crew either comes around or is called to remove the body.”
            “I hope you know I hate you.”
            “It looks like another joke is in order. What do you throw a drowning black man?”
            “You’re going to say his wife and kids aren’t you?”
            “That doesn’t make any sense. First, you’re putting additional lives in danger. Second, while people are buoyant, a life preserver would be the best possible thing. Actually, a rope might be better then that.”
            “Mother fucking cunt.”
            “8 more dollars.”

Sunday, April 10, 2011

I have surfed the 1990 Honda Civic. Others have surfed Firebirds and Cobras: those people are pussies.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Vignette 3

            “Why are we at the junkyard?”
            “My car sucks. No woman is going to be impressed by a 1990 Honda Civic. So, we are here to get me a new car.”
            “This still doesn’t make sense.”
            “I can’t afford to buy a new non-sucky car. So, we’re going to steal a nice looking one that doesn’t work, put it in the front of the house, and I’ll tell the ladies that it’s mine.”
            “If you’re going to steal a car, why don’t you steal a working one?”
            “Being a secret agent, I don’t need the cops on my ass. Nobody’s going to go looking for a car taken from the junkyard.”
            “Okay, genius. What if the ladies want to ride in your car?”
            “I’ll tell them that I’m working on it. Women like guys that work on things.”
            “But, you don’t know anything about cars.”
            “Yeah, like they do.”
            I climb over the fence of the junkyard and my natural awkwardness leads me to softly land straight on my neck. It took a few seconds of running around to regain my wits. Quentin, my housemate and technological support, waited until I told him it was all clear. I wasn’t going to check to make sure that we where alone but to find something nice and blunt. Ah, that will do.
            “All clear.”
            As he comes over the fence, I chuck a car battery at his head. The battery smashes into his head and disintegrates into a thousand pieces. He somehow unfazed, successfully lands on this side of the fence.
            “That was supposed to hurt you severely. But no, you stand there mocking me with your unharmed head. That battery must have been rotten. The battery acid doesn’t even burn anymore.”
            I touch the splattered acid on his face and my finger burns, which causes “shit” to leave my mouth. He nonchalantly wipes the acid from his face. To counteract his defiance, I pick up a pipe lying at my feet and swing it at his head. The pipe shatters on impact.
            “Can we just get on with it? I have other things I want to do today.”
            “Me and your head will have our reckoning. But now, we shall find my chick-attracting car.”
            After looking in vain for the better part of ten minutes, the better part was spent thinking about how hot I’d be; if I myself was a chick, I came upon something better then an actually working car of sweet lookingness.
            “Hey Quentin, get your ass over here.”
            “One more object hitting my head and I’m hotwiring your car and going back home.”
            “I’ll bash your brains in later. You got to see this.”
            “Ok, what is it?”
            “If I’m not mistaken, this horrible monstrosity that lies before us is a god.”
            “It looks like an octopus mated with a water heater.”
            “No, it looks like my ticket to everything I ever wanted and a bunch of stuff I could care less to have.”
            “You don’t even know if it’s an actual factual god.”
            “What else could it be?”
            “An abomination of nature.”
            “I got a god vibe coming from it.”
            “Ok, say it is a god. What are you going to do with it?”
            “I’m going to take him back to our place. Then I’m going to start a religion so people may worship my god and then, being worshiped, he will grant me power and cool swag.”
            “Nobody is going to worship that thing. It will scare children and old people. People like to worship divine beings with a certain image. God has his benevolent grandfatherlyness and Buddha is cuddly.”
            “They’ll worship it because of fear. You don’t worship it; it will kill you. Look at that thing, does that not look like something that would kill people? Hell, you don’t worship it; I’ll smother you with a pillow while you sleep.”
            “The divine wrath thing is played out. Why do you think the most of the Christian groups got rid of it a long time ago?”
            “The media and politicians use fearmongering all the time to control the stupid masses. And they can’t paint a picture as scary as this thing over here.”
            “OK smart guy, how are you going to get this thing home and where are you going to keep it.”
            “I’m planning on luring it into our basement with a trail of kittens.”
            “Where are you going to get enough kittens?”
            “We’re going to break into the animal shelter. Most of those cats are going to die anyway; they might as well die for the great Ollie Ollie Oxen Free.”
            “You’re naming it after…never mind. Lets just go steal those cats, so I can get on with my day.”

Monday, March 21, 2011

Un-Rewarding Day

          Puck foam idle skuzzy watermelon dipity doo! I’m so angry I’ve lost the ability to swear. I’m not sure if there’s a scientific scale for swearing, but if there is my losing all notion of bad words when I try to swear has to be pretty up there. Minotaur rabbi watercress sandwich! I just came from Better Purchase and they wouldn’t take my reward program certificate. I found the certificate in my neighbor’s trashcan; after I broke into their house to go through their things to make sure they are not a threat to me. But, Better Purchase doesn’t know that.
Nail gun flute!
            I think it all has to do with Better Purchase’s totally unfair corporate policies.  Like for instant, if the certificate has been used or is passed its expiration date they won’t honor it. That is totally Newton’s third law of thermal dynamics. That’s not my current inability to swear flaring up, I say that all the time in moments of frustration or when bowling balls drop on top of my head because of some comical contrivance. I don’t need some fancy British dead asshole to ruin my life by telling me that everything is going done the cosmic toilet and that’s there is nothing that we can do about it. In fourth grade I was going to make a perfect system. I’d be set for eternity, but my teacher had to destroy all of that with knowledge of universal laws. If my job paid well: I’d go over to London, desecrate Sir Isaac’s crypt and knock his rotted teeth out. Getting back on topic.
            Let’s say that you’re an enterprising young man and you want to get a good deal on some premium electronics, but alas you have no coupons and membership card. But, your young swift handsome toned mind knows that several other people do ,in fact, have those things. Maybe you find it on the ground, or after breaking into someone’s home. Shouldn’t that person be entitled to that discount anyway, by virtue of fate? Better Purchase did care for that argument, and before I could get into how they are unfair, I was beset by overpaid and overweight security guards and had to rabbit out of there.
            I’m currently having a compatriot of mine in the computer division hack into to their ordering system. Next week the shelves are going to be overflowing with copies of Speed 2, Pluto Nash, and the Pocket Fisherman’s infomercial. I’d like to see them sell that crap before inventory.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Vignette 2

           There has been a funny thing happening at the local Big Falcon for the past month. Not funny as in, something that is comical, that either intentionally or unintentionally makes you laugh or at the very least chuckle. But, funny in the sense that something is amiss with a person, place, action, or thing. Using funny in that way is pretty ambiguous. I should have just used strange. Let me start over.
            There has been a strange thing happening at the local Big Falcon for the past month. Two well dressed men whom I believe to be Colombians, by virtue of the fact that a cashier once heard one of them mention being from Colombia, have been going to the store daily between 3 to 5 in the afternoon. They only buy four watermelons on each of their visits and nothing else. This of course, is quite odd. That’s why I was called in to investigate.
            I started my investigation by googling Columbia. Columbia has an official website but I avoided it, knowing from experience with the US’s website that countries lie about themselves in order to make themselves seem more appealing. It’s like when I tell women that I regularly save orphans from pirates. I also avoided any professional looking or sounding sites, on the principle that those kinds of sites are always style and ads over substance. I did the only reasonable thing to do; I searched until I found a website about Columbia that was horribly designed, contained almost nothing but spelling errors, incoherently written, and had a five second midi continuous looping in the background. This website was perfect for finding the truth about Columbia. There was nothing standing in the way of presenting facts. What I learned on this site convinced me that there was something sinister going on.
            One: Columbians’ prefer pomegranates and mangos. The site goes into extreme detail about the Columbians’ love for pomegranates. They eat them almost nonstop and only bathe in the fruit’s juice. They may have a lovely fragrance but one thing they don’t have is a love for watermelon. Apparently, the taste of watermelon causes them to walk uncontrollably like an Egyptian. I’m not an Egyptologist, so I’m not familiar with the way they walk but I’m guessing that it’s a very unflattering style, since they’re very adamant about not eating watermelon. So, these Columbian gentlemen could not have been buying those watermelons for personal consumption. Also in regards to watermelons, the author of the site theorizes that the reason the black population of America eats so much of the delicious fruit, is because they fear Columbians ever since they invaded Harlem in the late 60s.
            Two: Columbia’s major exports are shoelaces, cocaine, and CIA agent killing ninjas. The cocaine-ninja complex poses some interesting questions but it lacks the relevance to this situation as shoelaces does. Now, most pairs of shoes have shoelaces. Of course, scandals, flip flops, high heels, and those other women’s shoes I don’t know the names for, lack shoelaces. The shoelace cartel doesn’t make any money off of those shoes. So, they want to either force shoelaces on to those shoes or get rid of them outright. These shoelace cartel people are the most dangerous criminals in all of Columbia and these men might be part of it.
            Three: The last thing with a bearing on this situation that I learned from the website; their favorite TV show is an American Idol knock off called: Guess Who’s Fernando? At the beginning of the season, one random singing hopeful is designated Fernando by the producers. Each week the panel of judges (an over the hill soap star with big fake boobs, a general who has been president for life four times, and David Ogden Stiers) get a cryptic clue from the producers on to who Fernando is. They kick singers that they don’t think is Fernando off the show each week until there is only one singer left. If that singer isn’t Fernando, they are given a record contract. If the singer is indeed Fernando, they are beaten bloody with nightsticks by the judges, made to eat a living cat, and then are shipped off to America to try out for American Idol. Any country that would send us more shitty pop singers is just plain evil.
            Knowing all that I know now, I know that I must stop these evil men before their evil plan can go any further. So, I wait in the Big Falcon parking lot at the appropriate time. Sure enough, two well-dressed men with dark complexions (probably Columbians) came out of the store with a shopping cart containing four watermelons and nothing else. As they’re putting the melons away in the truck I approach them. Fearing them having guns, knives, or really hard fists, I brought a local kid with me to use as a buffer. He will absorb the first wave of attacks, thus allowing me time to escape.
            “Hello there. I couldn’t help but see you putting watermelons into your car. It’s just that you appear to be Columbians and I have it on a very good authority that you people hate that particular fruit. So, why did you purchase, not one but, four of them?”
            “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We love watermelon.”
            “Hey, why are you holding that kid towards us?”
            “Now that you mention it, he looks to have a virtual death grip on the lad’s shoulders. And why is he holding him forcibly outward towards us.”
            “Yes, like some sort of buffer, between him and us.”
            Sensing that things were about to turn ugly, I ducked behind the brave child. When his body jerked from violence inflicted upon him, I would make my escape.
            “Son, is this your father?”
            “No. He lives on my block and paid me 20 dollars to stand in front of him.”
            “We want to talk to your friend alone.”
            “So, get going.”
            The kid takes off and I realize that I shouldn’t have paid him in advance.
            “Who are you and why do you care if we buy watermelons?”
            “I’m Brandon Downard, special secret agent with the CASA.”
            “What’s the CASA?”
            “Crisis Assessment and Solution Authority. When there’s a problem that the cops can’t or won’t handle in New Kensington, the CASA is called in to solve it.”
            “And someone called your organization because two Columbians are buying watermelons?”
            “A better question is: why would a crummy little city like this have it’s own secret agency?”
            “There is crime and threats here that the likes of you could never realize.”
            “What do you mean by: the likes of you?”
            “People that aren’t from around here.”
            “Tell us, why you are looking into, two men buying watermelons?”
            “You’ve been coming here everyday at around the same time for the past month, buying the exact same thing every time. That is odd behavior, don’t you think so?”
            “Not at all. We buy the watermelon to make fruit salad.”
            “Yes, we use the melon in fruit salad that we sell at our store, which I assure you, that you’ve never heard of.”
            “We need fresh watermelon everyday because we always sell out.”
            “Then shouldn’t you buy them in the morning instead of late afternoon. Also, there are multiple types of fruit in fruit salad. Why don’t you buy the other fruit here?”
            “We get all our other fruit from a suppler but we don’t like their watermelons.”
            “The lateness of our purchase is due to us catering exclusively to the dinner crowd.”
            “Really. You two are makers of fruit salads and not say; agents of the shoelace cartel.”
            “Shoelace cartel?”
            “Don’t play dumb with me. I read on the Internet all about Columbia’s plot to put a pair of laces on every shoe or else. I don’t know what part you play in their insidious plan, but I won’t allow you to carry it out any longer.”
            “That is as stupid, as saying that all Columbians hate watermelon.”
            “Then I guess I’ve been horribly informed about your country.”
            “You sure have been.”
            “So, you two wouldn’t want this pomegranate I’m taking out of my pocket.”
            “What, do you think that just because you have that piece of fruit, that we’ll have to eat it?”
            I toss the pomegranate down the sloping parking lot and after a second, both men chase after it. They both lay claim to it and begin to fight for it. While they’re occupied, I check out the watermelons they purchased. The first melon I look at had a circle cut into the rind. I use my car keys to remove the circular piece. Inside was a hollowed out pocket containing a large bag of cocaine. Damn, it was the cocaine-ninja complex after all.