I am trying to make a little extra money selling drugs in West Valley when I run into a little unanticipated problem. I have a considerable investment in some mind-altering chemicals, not to mention what I've spent on baggies, and I'm anxious to see some healthy returns on my investment. I'm thinking that I've arranged everything quite well, but a problem arises when I meet my customer representative to turn over the merchandise.
In a dark area under the freeway next to the railroad tracks I hand over the product to what appears to be a walking raincoat with a hat.
"What's this, man?" asks the raincoat.
"That's drugs, man. You know. You put it up your nose and it makes you do stupid things and then you die."
"I mean, these baggies got no tax stamps on them." I think the raincoat is glaring at me. "What do you think I am, some kind of criminal?"
I'm not really in the mood to discuss the finer points of the American criminal justice system with a London Fog. "No man, you're not a criminal. You're a product of a deficient system. Look, if you don't mind, I'm in kind of a hurry."
The raincoat isn't listening. I think it's shaking its head. "Trying to sell drugs without paying tax. You know, you're the kind of guy that gives drug dealers a bad name."
"Say what?"
"How long 'you been in business, Dude? Take your own risks, man. You might find some bad guy that's willing to buy your dope, but I'm not touching that stuff 'til I see some tax stamps on it."
As I watch the raincoat disappear around the corner of the Black Sabbath memorial spray paint mural, it occurs to me: When untaxed drugs are outlawed, only outlaws will buy untaxed drugs.
Frank Leany
