We're back from Jimmy's. It saved us a couple hours that we found the poor kid strung out on his sofa and barely breathing when we arrived. The paramedics picked him up at 3:30, and we were back at the Homestead by four.
PePe is irate. He's very protective of his Peruvian brethren, and he proposes that we go find that Assistant District Attorney, bust his door down, and waterboard him.
I say we wait.
There will indeed come a time when Phutatorius & Co. resort to force. In fact, unless I can put together one hell of a Marketing Department, that's how this has to play out.
I am reluctant, however, to take that big step just now. Mine is a long row to hoe long and at times lonely. I knew when I embarked that there would be provocations along the way, and they would number in the hundreds.
The important thing is to remember to put one's head down, focus on the goal, press on ahead. It can be too easy to succumb to distractions, to wander down sideroads and get lost or mugged by the footpads of the Establishment. We have power now, to be sure I'm an intermediate-level Elite Incan Dance Fighter (the Master Trainer reviewed my latest training video and sent me my certificate in the mail) but we're not so strong yet that I can afford the bad pub that would follow from dunking this punk prosecutor in his stationary tub for an evening.
To me, the better bet right now is to take the high road and float some money from the WDF for Jimmy's rehab. It's not obvious to me that Jimmy wouldn't have OD'd this morning irregardless. In fact, were it not for these oppressive inquiries from that ADA, we certainly would not have trekked down to East Cambridge to give Jimmy our reassurances. Who know who would have found him and when?
When I'm running the Show, B/S, I'm going to do something about drugs. This I promise you. Jimmy Atahualpa is a friend of mine. This issue is personal for me now.
In the meantime, our afternoon just opened up. Talk about a gift! It's off to The Cheesecake Factory for an afternoon snack: spinach/artichoke dip for me, and I'll be smuggling in my own white-corn Tostitos.