Super Dopeman of the Haight and Ashbury Part III
Driven by a desire for boozy good times, an unlikely and reluctant hero finds himself wielding incomprehensible powers of psychedelic proportions! Stay tuned in, dropped on and turned out for The Adventures of Doug, the Super Dope Man of the Haight and Ashbury Part III. (
Doug heaved the dead woman through the air. As she fell she spun. And as she spun her little chihuahua came dislodged from her massive bosom and flew from her shirt like a tea kettle from a crashing covered wagon. “The trajectory is perfect,” thought Doug. “The little bastard will be crushed to death by twenty years of too many cheeseburgers!”
And then Sal’s dead body hit the ground well shy of the gunman — a good ten feet short, really.
But the Chihuahua sailed through the air, having been greatly accelerated by the spinning mass of the woman. The high speed chihuahua tumbled, waving its little legs wildly in the air and clawing the gunman’s face as it impacted him. And though a chihuahua is a small dog, being hit directly in the face with a high-velocity version of the breed is more than enough to knock your average human over. And that was the case in this instance.
The gunman fell backwards. The chihuahua rolled and bit and then scampered away into the bar, looking back over its shoulder, propelling itself with mostly just one rear leg as small dogs often do when panicked. Doug looked down, said, “Elephants don’t ride bicycles,” and then simultaneously puked and shat his pants. He rounded that off with a little sneeze before passing out and falling onto Sal for the second time that day.
“Holy shit,” said one of the SWAT team members, chuckling a little bit. “That is one of the weirdest things I’ve ever — Ah! He’s coming right for us!!”
And then he and several other SWAT unloaded their guns on the prone body of the gunman, who had not in fact been coming right for them. But since he was really kind of a bat-shit crazy jerk who wouldn’t find much help in our modern mental healthcare system, maybe this instance of police brutality was all for the best. Maybe not.
Doug was taken to the hospital, given a strong dose of thorozene, had his stomach pumped, and was written up for the minor infraction of drug use, which isn’t really as bad as the crime of possession. But it was later dismissed by the courts, not because of Doug’s bravery, simply because it wasn’t in the budget to take such minor incidents to trial. After he recuperated, Doug adopted Sally’s chihuahua, whose name he had never known, but who he decided to call “Rail Whiskey,” since he had one hellova bite.
You can still find them at the bar most afternoons, where they drink for free. Doug is quite good at pool although he walks with a cane and has a nasty habit of talking to people that aren’t there. The chihuahua still doesn’t want to have much to do with anyone that doesn’t offer a scrap of cheeseburger. And now and again one of the old regulars that was held hostage will come around and tell the tale of the Super Dopeman of the Haight and Ashbury.
“Wow,” says the customer at the bar. “Really?”
“No! Not really!” Cries the bartender, smiling. “I’m just making conversation and you’re the only jerk in here! You want another round or what?!”