Enter A Fistful Of Marijuana

By Jay Royston

Jack Steele is a retired agent of the International Internal Revenue Service. Called out of retirement for one last job, his mission is to bring Jacques LaPlante, notorious tax evader and drug kingpin to tax justice, rescue the girl and save the day.

To do that, he needs to go high up in the Rocky Mountains to the small town of Wee Danpot where he finds things aren't as they appear. He also finds out LaPlante has greater aspirations than anyone could dream about and may not be as nefarious as he was led to believe.

And the only ones who can stop Steele are a trio of lovable misfits who want nothing more than to keep the best weed in the world safe at home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Royston
• Release date: Aug 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311266668

Jay Royston

40+ years old. 3 kids 2 dogs 1 wife 1 mortgage 1 blog 30 jobs 3 books 1 unreleased movie 5 yr volunteer firefighter 1 cancer scare 750K+ 'views' on various Internet articles

Book preview

Enter a Fistful of Marijuana originally started as a screenplay around 2004. When I found that I was never going to be moving down to Hollywood it sat in a variety of moving boxes until one day I decided to try transforming it into a novel.

It was a long process, a lot of influences having changed in the preceding years. Where scriptwriting is primarily a visual form, I found that my characters/situations needed back story, needed context in what they were doing/thinking. I found this to be a story that I was constantly tweaking. Names/places changed, bits were omitted, bits were added. Over the years EaFoM became more of a chore than a writing project. It was like a bird that needed to leave the nest or a houseguest that overstayed its welcome. I/it needed to move on.

A special thank you to those that have put up with me over the years and who have indirectly or directly given me support; to Jaime for putting up with me through the good and the bad, to Norm C for designing the cover, to Dad for being a slow reader and copy editor and to the original Jack Steele, who could make me laugh when no one else could.

Thanks,

-jay royston 2014

CHAPTER 1

Meet the prequel

My uncle, a 3rd generation Canadian, as patriotic as maple syrup and the double double, has a joke that goes like this:

What do you call a Canada Goose in America?

A Canada Goose.

What do you call an American Eagle in Canada?

A Lucky Son of a Bitch.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>

First, close your eyes.

Wait. Because this is a book, that instruction is self-defeating. You will have to keep them open. Read the next paragraph then close your eyes for five seconds. This will be the only time in the book this storyteller will ask you of this. It is not a gimmick. Well, okay. It totally is but you may as well know what you are getting into right off the start.

Imagine you are a soaring eagle; one of those huge American Bald Eagles, majestic as the Rocky Mountains you are flying over.

To the East, in the distance you can see the end of the world. It is the place where the mountains turn into hills that turn into flat rolling lands that bore you with their safety and conformity to mankind and landscaping in general. To the West there are the same mountains, but smaller. Up here there are large mountains crested with snow-covered peaks that have been there forever and barren tundra. They fight for attention with rivulets of rivers and mountain lakes not yet frozen over reflecting sunlight back into the sky. You go into the forested valleys and you can see deer and moose breaking trails through the trees and meadows. You follow the currents of the wind, the occasional beat of your wings taking you left or right. You are flying with no destination.

You see a glare of light far below; sun hitting a vehicle's windshield. For no other reason than you are free you follow it. You bend over so slightly and ride the wind and fall lower to the earth. The car is directly below you now, a convertible car and you can see the top of a woman and a man riding inside of it. You follow them as they take the turns and corners through the mountains, taking them closer to what could generously be described as a village. You circle overhead.

Now, close your eyes and imagine this scene once again. Breathe. This story will wait until you are ready.

Eyes open?

Did it cross your mind to drop a steaming load of eagle shit on them? Because if you did, things may have turned out differently.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>

Inside a convertible far below a constipated eagle sat a bored, beautiful yet disproportionately vain woman named Melissa. She was young and felt she knew what it takes to make it in this world and so she frequently took it more than she gave it. She considered herself quite hip, which required her to believe everything to be boring. The forests were boring, the mountains were boring, and sitting in the passenger seat of the car was boring. The only thing more boring than looking at the scenery was talking with Jeff, the driver of the convertible.

She was especially upset because she could get no cell service and so was forced to stare at the scenery. It had been over an hour since her last signal bar and the lack of connection to her on-line social network was killing her, figuratively and literally. If she wasn't online, she may as well be dead to all her online friends.

We're lost, Melissa stated again, in case the driver didn't hear her any of the other dozen times she stated it.

The driver said nothing which in this case was an improvement. She could feel the car accelerate a little.

Jeff did talk a lot. But usually it was some bit of boring trivia only he thought was interesting like 'did you know that glacier there was once the biggest glacier in the world?' or 'I'm taller than Brad Pitt' or 'Social Media is just a passing phase, like Smashmouth or planking'.

She tried to remain interested, as he appeared to have lots of money. But Jeff wasn't as hip or as young as his online dating profile led her to believe. Truthfully, she also lied about certain parts of her personality which was how they were matched up in the first place. They both wanted to find someone else that wasn’t like all the others they've dated, both failing to realize their relationship problems might not be in their ex-partners but themselves.

They both knew that once they got back to the city it was over. The problem was they needed to get back to the city first. It was the least Jeff could do¹. *Footnote1- actually, the least he could do was leave her at the hot springs hotel but he wasn't about to risk his online dating cred that way*.

So when the old man at the last gas station suggested taking the much more scenic, and most importantly to Jeff and Melissa, shorter route, they both agreed it was a great idea.

Melissa checked her phone again. They were no closer to civilization/cell service than they were two minutes and thirty seconds ago.

They were lost, although neither would admit it. With no satellite reception there was no GPS system for the car to rely on. The thought of having to buy an old-fashioned road map or asking the next house for directions actually crossed Jeff's mind². *Footnote2 - a sure sign of how desperate he was to get back to the City.*

Jeff kept his eyes on the road ahead of him. The highway was empty of everything but asphalt and the occasional too slow sunbathing badger. Now that he thought about it, it was curious the old man used air quotes around the word 'shorter'. The kilometers ticked by as the sun shifted positions in the afternoon sky as he circled mountains and dipped into valleys.

Jeff believed a sign would help him out, if only one would appear. The only proof they were going somewhere was they were still on a highway. He knew all highways led somewhere, it was a well-known fact. And on highways there were signs placed intermittently. If only a road sign would appear to tell him how far away anything was. Then he could start counting down the time remaining until he dropped Melissa off at her apartment. He would say thanks for the trip, maybe give her a polite hug and never call her again. She was boring. The conversation was unoriginal and boring while the sex was boring and unoriginal. If it weren't for the cheap wine, cable television and her cell phone it would have been unbearable weekend.

Simply put Melissa was someone he no longer wanted to know. She was just like all the other girls he dated. Plus, one of her nipples was quite darker than the other but he didn't want to dwell on that for he didn't see himself as a shallow person.

Time seemed to stand still as they wound their way through the admittedly beautiful landscape. What he thought was an hour would turn out to be only fifteen minutes. What was fifteen minutes was only five minutes, as time perception tends to skewer when one is lost.

Jeff mentally began re-writing a scathing review of the gas station to post on his travel blog upon his return as he stepped on the gas, chasing the clock. The sun reflected off something far in the distance. He prayed for it to be a sign, either literally or figuratively, cursing as the road curved away from the direction he wanted to go in.

He briefly wondered if the sign was a mirage, life playing tricks on him. Would it still be there? The road curved back; the sign was coming up. He noticed it wasn’t a Highways sign but still it was something, proof somebody once was out here in these beautiful yet inconvenient mountains.

He wondered if he should point the sign out to Melissa then decided against it. She appeared to be asleep and the less she spoke the better.

He was able to read the sign now.

ENTERING WEE DANPOT; POPULATION 418.

Finally, he said. The one word perked Melissa from under her sun hat. Her reaction made him question her previous pleas of deafness due to wind noise.

What? she asked, are we there yet?

She read the sign as they zipped past at high above highway speed.

Wee Danpot? Sounds stupid.

At least it's somewhere. We'll stop and get some gas, find out how much longer until we are on the #1.

Jeff slowed the car as they neared the beginning of, for lack of better words, town.

My god, this looks like where murderers come from, Melissa said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth.

A few houses poked out through the trees along either side of the highway. A small clutch of buildings indicated a town center coming up ahead of them. Jeff slowed down as he passed a posted speed limit sign.

How retro, an actual horse, she said, pointing to a lethargic and ancient brown mare tied to a hitching post. In front of the horse, sitting under a shaded porch were three old men with varying lengths of beards and dry spittle. It was hard to distinguish who was guarding who. I have to take a picture.

I feel like we just drove onto a Clint Eastwood western, said Jeff, a long-time Eastwood fan.

Who's Clint Eastwood? asked Melissa as she waved to the old men. She felt it was expected of her for reasons only she knew. One of the old men raised a hand and didn't so much as wave back as more acknowledged their existence. It was the first sign of that since the gas station. It felt nice.

The town's center consisted of an old weathered gas station/convenience store, a closed pizzeria shop that also stated it to be a used book store. Jeff noted the gas station's sign (a company he never heard of; LaPlante's Gas Co. Inc. Ltd.) appeared to be standing solely from memory or sheer habit. The gas pumps looked like they had not been upgraded since World War Two. In front of the pumps was an old wooden sandwich board; written in chalk was the price of gas.

He slammed the brakes so hard Melissa would have been eating the dash if it weren't for her seat belt. As is, she dropped her cell phone on the floor at her feet.

What the hell, Jeff? she shouted as she bent down to retrieve it.

Did you see that? Gas is twenty-five cents a liter! he exclaimed, That can't be right. That's like, 1985 prices!

He made a fast U-turn and parked in front of an antique pump. True to the sign's promise, the price indicator was set at twenty-five cents. Jeff jumped out of the car and grabbed the nozzle as if it was about to escape. He jammed the nozzle inside the car quicker than two drunken teens losing their virginity on prom night.

Melissa took a quick look in the mirror, moved a few strands of hair off her forehead then stepped out of the car and stretched. Still no signal, as she expected. She was getting quite used to disappointment on this trip. She drank in the ambiance and perhaps with no distractions other than Jeff dry-humping his car, there were other things to distract her. Everything was calm and quiet. It felt like when her yoga class went to the park. There was a certain charm to the place they would have missed if they drove through. There were flowers on the lampposts, an old black dog strolling along the other side of the road.

Oh my god, she said, I bet this is one of those towns where all those cheap wooden crafty things you buy down in Mexico come from.

Jeff smirked. At one time he thought those types of ignorant comments made by Melissa were cute and part of her act. Now that he knew it wasn't an act he just found them ignorant.

Baby, he said in that voice that made her want to punch him, everyone knows all that Mexican crap comes from China, not Canada.

Then where does all the- AHHHH! she screamed, more in delight than fear.

Jeff followed her outstretched finger to see what she was screaming about.

A real live hippie! Oh my god! she cupped her face in her hands.

Approaching them was a woman, dressed in what appeared to be remnants of carpets or curtains. Feathers hung from her long dirty-blonde hair and round rose-tinted sunglasses. At the end of one of her multi-rope bracelet-covered arms was a small boy dressed normal in comparison; a simple T-shirt and shorts.

Jeff felt he had seen the woman before. Not in person but some other medium, such as in a magazine or television. He shrugged off the feeling and turned back to the watch the pump hit four dollars. He couldn't wait to get back to the City, call his Dad and tell him about this place. This was the kind of thing that would make the old man proud of him.

Melissa also felt she recognized the woman, being of somewhat more liberal and younger parents than Jeff's.

Good morning, the woman smiled at them. The boy she was holding hands with looked down at the dirt.

Melissa smiled. The woman's face looked so familiar. It reminded her of her mom's tea parties, when all her embarrassing artsy friends would come over, get high and listen to records on the family's embarrassing old turn table, the one that would have been cool if her parents weren't the original owners. This woman was reminding her of someone. Someone famous......a singer...she could see an album cover...

Oh my god! You're Joni Mitchell! My mom has all your records!

Jeff snapped his fingers.

Yes! That is who you are!

She looked quite older than the girl in the poster of which he recognized her from, but she should be. It was nearly two decades ago in college. He was dating a girl, someone in his economics class. She had this poster of her over her bed. He didn't care for it as it appeared to stare down at them in disgust after they finished doing what college kids do.³ *Footnote3 - generally something involving a lot of self-doubt followed by shame the following day*.

Why, that's nice, said Ms. Mitchell, tell her I say thank you.

And with that she led the boy pass them into the store, the door chimes bringing a cheery dessert-like ambiance to the moment.

Wow. Joni Mitchell. Here. That's crazy, said Melissa, aren't hippies just so nice, Jeff? They are so hard not to like, I mean, if you get to know them. I thought they were nearly all extinct.

Yeah, said Jeff, well, they are hard not to hate either. What with their lack of personal hygiene, job skills and STD's.

Wow, she scowled at him, Racist much? I'm going to use the restroom. Maybe I can get a selfie with her.

Whatever you need to do, babe, said Jeff, smiling as he watched the price gauge finally hit the five dollar mark, although I'm sure she lives here in the middle of nowhere for a reason. Maybe she doesn't do selfies.

Everybody does selfies, babe. Besides, Melissa replied, spitting her gum at him as she walked past, she's Joni Mitchell.

Melissa entered the store. The decor spoke of a minimalist grocery store as would be expected considering the location. There were a couple low aisles of shelving with assorted odd tacky items hanging from walls and ceilings. At one front window there was a small table. Seated there were two large middle-aged men in ball caps and hunting jackets. She smiled at them but they ignored her, which she found unusual. Men didn't ignore her, anywhere. It was something she was quite proud of.

Behind a large counter on one side of the store there was a pot-bellied man with a handlebar moustache and rosy cheeks. His wire-rimmed glasses sat like a hat on his grandfatherly nose. He paused in his quiet conversation with Ms. Mitchell to nod to her in a friendly neighborhood 'only cashier here' fashion. Her faith in men slightly reassured, she returned his smile.

She wondered if it would be rude to interrupt the two of them for her celebrity selfie. She stopped at the magazine display, a collection of farming, gardening and forestry hobby magazines. She picked up a copy of People and pretended to be reading it while trying to concentrate on the whispered conversation beside her.

I wonder what famous people talk about, she thought, What I should say? Maybe she will say something totally amazing to me. That would be so cool. Look at her with that messy hair, she's so regular.

She could pick up through their body language things were tense between the two. The cashier and Ms. Mitchell were having a 'not-argument', a conversational technique her parents were masters of. It involved arguing in calm, rational voices and then denying they were arguing at all. These two were doing the same thing, fighting but not fighting. Most likely it was for the benefit of the boy sitting on the floor at Joni's feet.

I am sorry, said the cashier, but I don't need any more of your compact discs, Joni. Nobody is buying them anymore. I need cash to pay my suppliers. No more Karma.

But, Joni whispered back, I have always paid by music or Karma.

I know Joni and everyone around here loves your music. But that's the problem. Everyone already has every album you put out and my suppliers only accept cold hard cash. I can only give the drivers so much Karma but their bosses won't take that as trade. And Mr. LaPlante, he don't need more Karma. Same with the compact discs.

I know, she sighed, it's this file-sharing I have been hearing about isn't it? It's what everyone is doing on their computers nowadays. Taking my music and not paying for it.

Now Joni, semi-whispered the old man, you know we love your music and we support you in everything you do but it's a different world out there. They still rely on money and copyright lawyers. If one of your songs could go viral or be remade, you will be laughing. Perhaps you could do it; you know, make some of your baby goats dance to it or something. Everybody loves baby goats.

What about the tourists? Don't they buy any?

We don’t get tourists like we used to, said the cashier, lowering his voice as he glanced over at Melissa, LaPlante doesn't want any tourists coming through here until, you know... the only ones who come through here are lost.

Melissa realized that was her. She was a tourist and lost. She had an easy solution for everyone. She grabbed a magazine with the latest It girl on the cover and walked over to the counter. The two stopped talk/fighting. She smiled at the little boy who eyed her suspiciously before returning his attention to the chocolate bars.

Excuse me, she said, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Perhaps I could buy some of your music as gifts for my girlfriends back in the City.

You would? Joni brought her hands up to her face, Oh my dear, that would be so nice of you.

Sure, I mean why not. You are a role model to so many women, like my mom and her friends. Would it be too much to ask if you could autograph them for me? And could I get a selfie with you?

Of course! Do you have a pen?

That sure is nice of you, miss, said one of the men at the table. They both smiled at her. The cashier handed a pen to Ms. Mitchell.

How many would you like? he asked.

How many do you have? asked Melissa.

Well, let's see. Including these I have twenty-seven.

I will take all of them. The guy out there filling up a coke bottle with gasoline will pay.

You sure he won't mind? asked Ms. Mitchell as she signed the compact discs and four cassette tapes the cashier placed in front of her.

No, not at all. Jeff is a caring, sensitive man who used to play in a band once, at least that is what his lying profile stated, she thought, and he repeatedly told me he loves to help out struggling musicians, Ms... her words faltered as she inspected the first CD Ms. Mitchell handed her.

Joan E. Michull, she read the name aloud, furrowed her brow in thought, that doesn't look right...

The chimes went off, signaling the entrance of Jeff, grinning ear to ear, the type of grin that came from filling up a vehicle with high octane for less than ten dollars.

Eight and a half dollars for a full tank! Amazing place! I love it here!

Hey Jeff sweetie, Melissa smiled as she held up a bottle of water, would you mind buying me a few things?

"Sure. I just saved like sixty dollars, at least! What's another few