THE ELECTRIC DREAMS OF MR. NATURAL
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I got a head full of sermons and a mouth full of spiders
The politics of the world's greatest liar
- The Black Crowes
The hooker snuggled up next to me was hysterically giggling like a mental patient, that’s what finally brought me out of my Quaalude, cocaine, and high quality weed, washed down with cheap champagne induced coma. For about 30 seconds I stared up at the ceiling trying to figure out just where in the hell I was at. It was a hotel I quickly figured out but I wasn’t sure what city or even state it was located in. Shit! What a hangover! Must have been one hell of a night.
The boombox that was sitting on top of the TV was blasting out Bottle of Wine by The Fireballs at an ear bleeding inducing level and I couldn’t believe that hadn’t woken me up earlier or had people in the next room pounding on the walls.
I finally rolled over on and looked over the whore’s shoulder to see just what in the fuck was so funny. My partner, Roman – a brutish Samoan lout with a penchant for Angel Dust and Mad Dog 20/20 - was standing out on the deck, buck naked, and pissing over the railing while shouting out at the top of his lungs, “That’s not rain you dumb son of a bitches!”
That cleared things up quickly. Now I knew where I was at. Honolulu. Downtown Waikiki to be more precise and Roman was taking a leak on some tourists from twenty floors up at the military run hotel, the Hale Koa. Since the only people who could stay at the hotel had to have some affiliation with the military it stood to reason that their getting urinated on could cause some serious consequences for us.
“Roman, get the hell in here before someone spots you and counts the floors and gets the cops or the goddamn Shore Patrol up here,” I hollered, “And shut that goddamn music off!”
He stepped back into the room, viciously pulled the boombox plug out of the wall – the cord snapped and sparks went flying, fired up a Camel, and fished into the cooler and pulled out a can of Primo and chugged it down in three long gulps. He gave out a long, roaring belch that sent the hooker into another spasm of giggles.
I reached over and poked her in her right breast. There was a dragon tattooed on it. I was poking it on its tail. “Wasn’t there two of them? (Girls not tits) Where’s the other one at? Did she leave already?”
Roman was bent over digging around in the cooler for another beer and looked between his legs at me while at the same time displaying a visual sight I didn’t need to see this morning or any other morning for that matter. “Bitch is passed out in the crapper. Been puking most of the morning, a real lightweight that one. I only got to nail her four times.”
Almost as if on cue, a trumpeting rolling fart could be heard coming from the bathroom. “Jesus Christ! That sounded wet,” laughed Roman.
Now the whole night became much clearer. After the bust went sour we had gone down to Waikiki bar-hopping and had stopped off at for a nightcap rub and tug at some side street massage parlor. One thing had led to another and with an offer of some coke and Quaaludes we had lured the two Japanese masseuses back to the hotel to continue on with the party.
“How about putting on some shorts at least? I’m sick of seeing your unit swinging around. Someone could get hurt. That thing’s a lethal weapon.” Roman’s genitalia could best be described as a “pipe.”
“What’s up your ass this morning?”
He sat down on the opposite bed, pulled on a pair of surf shorts and chugged down the rest of his second beer of the day. “I can’t believe that dipshit Larry got busted on his way here. Drives an ancient rattletrap Plymouth Valiant with no brake lights and expired Iowa plates down Kam highway with four pounds of Kona Gold in a duffel bag in the trunk. He might just as well of called Honolulu PD before he left the base and given them a description of the car. Jesus Christ, what a fucking idiot!” He sprawled out on the bed and lit up a massive joint. “He fucked the whole bust up! All he had to do was drive down here, park the fucking car, come up to the room, and we bust his ass. How hard can it be? Fucking loser! I already had a buyer for a pound of that Gold all set up. You know those crooked goddamn Honolulu cops are going to be putting that back out on the street. What a waste.”
I had gotten busy rubbing my hand down between the legs of my bed partner trying to possibly get a morning encore going but she kept twisting from side to side while crossing her legs and jabbering something in Japanese so it looked like it was going to be a no go, so I finally gave up the ghost and rolled out of bed. I rooted through my clothes piled on the floor making sure both my wallet and pistol were still there. You can never tell with sex trade workers what could turn up missing while you’re passed out. It’s not that it’s like a job that requires a series of grueling interviews, an embellished resume, and an intensive governmental background check so you can work at NASA.
I grinned at my partner. “You act like Larry knew he was going to get busted once he got here. Like he knew he was part of the plan. Don’t take it so fucking seriously. There will be other busts. How many of these sailors that we’ve busted in the last couple years do you think were ever going to be splitting the atom or going to Harvard after they got out of the Navy? Majority of these guys are idiots. Larry was so fucking dumb he couldn’t pour piss out of his shoe if the instructions were on the heel.”
Roman looked over at me through a haze of marijuana smoke. “You know we’re sailors, too. Sometimes I think you forget that, you with your big time law enforcement degree. We’re not cops we’re narcs, and dirty narcs to boot! But when it gets right down to it, right now, we’re still just fucking sailors! And eventually if we’re not careful someone is going to get smart and either put a bullet in our brain pan or throw us off the deck of a ship for shark bait.”
Roman was starting to suffer a malady common to our profession – starting to believe he was actually the persona he was portraying. “What the hell? Have you lost your fucking mind? You think you’re Popeye all of a sudden? Fuck, man, I don’t know even know your real name and we’ve worked together for damn near two years. Just because you have a fake Navy military ID in your wallet and wear a uniform when you go on the base doesn’t make you a sailor. We’re just playing sailor. Next week they could give us shitty haircuts and a two week crash course and we could be posing as Marines, or worse, a fucking soldier. We work where the company wants us to work. Fuck! Get it together, dude!”
He was right about the law enforcement degree and me not being a cop though. I had gone to college on an athletic scholarship, cross country, I at one time had been a hell of a distance runner, and got my degree in law enforcement. After I graduated I was accepted for the police academy in Minneapolis. I was damn near three quarters away from graduating when I got busted smoking reefer with a stripper in the back seat of her car on Hennepin Avenue.
I was damn near top of the class when the shit hit the fan and one of the instructors took pity on me. His background was in narcotics and they gave me a sweet deal. Even at the age of twenty-three I looked about seventeen, tops. I was tall but lean as a greyhound and was still sporting a baby face, I think I only had to shave about three times a week. They set me up undercover at one of the local high schools where I bought decent size quantities of pot, acid, some coke, and a shitload of speed from high school dealers and their connections.
They loved my work and the deal was after the majority of cases went to trial or pled out I could go back to the academy, finish my remaining classes, get my badge, and join the Minneapolis PD.
Everything was cool until the brass discovered I had been screwing a number of high school age girls, one having to get an abortion, while attending high school for the second time. I was damn lucky that they didn’t also find out I had been ripping off a number of the dealers and reselling their product.
I walked over and took the joint from him and took a long drag. “You worry too much. Come on. Get your ass up and roust your girlfriend there in the crapper. We’ll take the bimbos to breakfast, snort a couple of lines to get right and go out to Sandy Beach and do some body surfing. It’s too nice a day to waste pissing and moaning about a bust that went hinky.”
Another loud fart echoed out of the bathroom as if answering me.
I always woke up real early on Tuesdays and Fridays. I mean real early, like three in the morning early. Automatically, like clockwork. Tuesdays and Fridays were ECT days. ECT – Electroconvulsive Therapy. Some inmates got it just once a week, either on a Tuesday or a Friday, according to the schedule on the board the shrinks posted. I was what they called a Tweeker – not a Tweaker like a meth head Tweaker – a Tweeker in the security hospital was an inmate that got ECT twice a week. Get it?
At about eight o’clock, three guards would come open my cell, cuff me, and lead me to the ECT room where they would proceed to scramble my brains with a high dose of electrical current (no breakfast those mornings, they don’t want you projectile vomiting straight up in the air when the juice hits you). “I wouldn’t know whether to shit or wind my wristwatch “(sometimes for days) when they were done with me as R.P. McMurphy said in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest when they did the exact same thing to him.
The strange thing about the days I got ECT was that I didn’t have the dream. I don’t know if it was because I woke up so early on those days and I normally had the dream after three in the morning or what it was.
All I knew was that on shock therapy days I didn’t have the dream. I only ever have one dream in my life now. Of course, I use to have all sorts of dreams, just like everybody else does. And I missed having them, especially the ones like where I was having a threesome with two big jugged women like Loni Anderson and Lynda Carter while she was wearing her Wonder Woman costume. But now those dreams were no more. Hell, I didn’t even dreams like I was falling or like I was taking a long piss and then you woke up and really did have to take a leak. Nope! After they started me on the juice I had only one dream and one dream only.
I called it the Mr. Natural electric dream.
Mr. Natural is a cartoon character created by Robert Crumb. Crumb was a cartoonist back in the 60’s and 70’s who drew all these drug oriented comic books where all the men had giant dicks and the woman had these huge tits and enormous asses. The reason I named my dream after Mr. Natural is because the first time they took me down to ECT I had just dropped a hit of blotter acid with Mr. Natural (not my first experience with the bearded fellow) on it – I obviously didn’t realize they were coming to get me that ill-fated morning.
Before I got locked up, I had been working undercover posing as a biker with a dirt bag club called Satan’s Reapers. I worked that gig for almost a year and in that time I got real close with the old lady of a douchebag ex-con tweaker that was an on and off meth cook for the club.
Yolanda was her name and on occasion when I went to pick up a batch of crank for the club her old man – who went by the handle of Hog Boy – would be either gone off in the woods cooking a batch or sleeping off a four day crystal binge and we would wind up hitting the sheets (Believe me, I was always wore an industrial strength condom). Yolanda was good looking in a rough sort of way for the squeeze of a meth cook and had a nice rack for a skinny broad, she was also skilled in the blowjob department and didn’t mind showing off her skills when I came over. She also had a ten year old retarded daughter - and after one particularly spirited bout in bed - she confided in me that Hog Boy liked to diddle on occasion.
I’ve never liked perverts (I once had an uncle who like to go watch my mother – his sister - perform at the strip club in my hometown) especially child molesters, so one night I put on a pair of black sweats and a Mexican wrestling mask (I had an ex-girlfriend who liked me to wear it when we had sex) and tracked Hog Boy out to the shack he was cooking in way out in the boonies.
After I got done beating him half to death with an aluminum softball bat and a pair of brass knuckles he never laid a hand on Yolanda’s daughter again. Physically, I don’t think he could of if he had even wanted to. He wound up in a wheel chair drinking meals run through a blender. Eventually he hired a local white trash moron named Delmar, fresh out of Red Wing reformatory to help him cook and they both wound up getting torched to death in some deserted farm house when a batch went bad.
After I got locked up and to pay me back, Yolanda would come see me, and in the visiting room would French kiss a balloon or condom with some weed, coke, or crystal down my throat. After one visit I found the hit of acid nestled in with some fine Columbian Gold and had dropped it early the next morning. The very morning the headshrinkers had scheduled me to get hooked up and juiced.
Let’s just say that the combination of LSD and electricity shorted something important out in my brain that I would never get back.
The stench of PCP was overpowering. Roman was smoking it in a regular tobacco pipe and the inside of our Chevy Impala smelled like some sort of a chemical factory fire. He had a jumbo bottle of Primo beer stuck between his legs.
“Hit?” He was holding the pipe over to me.
“Hell, no! I’ll just stick with the Thai Stick, thank you very much.” I had smoked Dust one time and that had been one time too many. Peeling off all my clothes in a strip club called Mary’s Lounge, I had jumped on the stage, did a quick lurid dance with the dancer onstage, jumped off before the three hundred pound bouncer could grab me, tore out the door, and then proceeded to streak down the main drag of Pearl City at one in the morning. Roman had found me whimpering in the fetal position under the teeter-totter at some children’s park around sunrise.
I pulled into the parking lot at Sandy Beach. “You might want to take a break from smoking that shit. Those waves look pretty rugged this morning. In fact, we might want to give it a pass. Maybe we should just hit Hotel Street, drink some beer and shoot some stick or something. We need to drop off that kilo of bud over in Salt Lake anyway.”
Roman was already out the door and peeling his shirt off. “The hell with that! I’m feeling suicidal this morning.”
I really wish he hadn’t of said that.
As we walked on to the beach I noticed that a lot of the locals were just sitting on the sand watching the action. “Come on, you pussy!” Roman was waving me in as he waded into the surf.
The waves were huge, almost gigantic. The first one I tried to dive under pulled me straight up and back and I crashed down on to the sand, landing on my side and knocking the air out of my lungs. It was like being inside of a salt water washing machine. After I staggered around the beach for a couple of minutes and catching my breath I gathered up some courage and successfully dove under the next breaker and caught the following wave for a pretty sweet ride.
I should’ve quit after that one.
The next wave coming wasn’t nearly half the size of the first two but as soon as I dove under it and re-surfaced I knew I was in big trouble. The people on the beach looked about the size of nickel! I was caught in an enormous rip current and was being pulled out to sea at an alarming rate. On top of it, I was stoned, still drunk and/or hung over, dehydrated from boozing, suffering from lack of sleep, and not the best swimmer under optimal conditions.
In short, I was going to fucking drown!
I glanced over and saw Roman about fifty yards away being pulled out in a different riptide. He was flailing wildly and screaming out something but I couldn’t hear what it was. I started swimming toward shore frantically but was being pulled further and further out to sea. I glanced up and couldn’t see any lifeguards on boards paddling out to rescue us.
Again, I was going to fucking drown!
Now I don’t know what happened next really happened or if I just hallucinated it or if some mysterious God of the sea decided to take pity on me. But suddenly a dolphin surfaced right in front of me, not five feet away, and it was swimming at an angle towards the beach, and that’s when it dawned on my drug addled mind. You don’t swim straight in when caught in a rip, you swim at an angle to get out of it.
So keeping my eyes on the dolphin, I swam as hard and as fast as I could, trying to keep pace with him. I tell you, I was a regular goddamn Mark Spitz out there. I could see I was making progress, the shoreline was getting closer inch by inch! It seemed like hours but I’m sure it was only minutes, but suddenly the dolphin dove under with a loud flap of his tail and an enormous wave hit me from behind and threw me down close to shore. I staggered the final few yards up on to the beach, collapsed, and puked up about ten gallons of the Pacific and some sort of jellyfish.
Two locals grabbed me by the arms and pulled me farther up the beach where I barfed again and then immediately passed out. When I came to I was surrounded by beach bums, some homeless guy wearing a fedora, lifeguards, locals, and some pretty hot chicks in bikinis. I was on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance for a ride up to Tripler Army Hospital. The radio was playing Surfin’ Bird by The Trashmen. When I asked about Roman one of the lifeguards said “Who the hell is Roman?”
They never found his body.
And that’s my Mr. Natural electric dream. And it’s really not a dream at all. It really did happen. Just like that. And every night (except on ECT days) I relive it. In Technicolor.
I’m pulling you out, no ifs and buts about it. This shit is bringing too much heat down on the agency and me in particular. What in the fuck were you two thinking?”
“We were bodysurfing, Gene, got caught in a rip current. An innocent mistake. We were just having some fun. Jesus Christ! Roman is dead!”
Gene was Gene Duncan, my undercover “handler.” I had known Gene almost from the day they had booted me out of the academy. The same instructor who had gotten me the high school gig had dropped a line to Gene, told him I was a great narcotics undercover man, but just not cop material. Told Gene that I “Wasn’t really cut out to be a police officer. He’s got that wild thing going in his blood, can’t seem to settle down. But he’d be perfect for what you guys got going.”
“You were having fun? Don’t give me that bullshit! Your urinalysis at Tripler was red hot! You tested positive for three different narcotics - coke, MDA, and horse! And to top it off, the Honolulu PD found a pound of weed, some angel dust, two handguns and a sawed off shotgun in the trunk! What in the fuck were you two idiots doing bodysurfing in that condition and driving around with that kind of weight? You had no business being out there!”
“Roman is dead, Gene.” I repeated.
He leaned back in his chair and re-lit his Swisher Sweet and stared up at the ceiling for about a minute. When he spoke again his voice was a little softer. “I know he’s dead, Jimmy, and I’m sorry but that doesn’t change the fact that you two fucked up big time and you need to be pulled off this assignment. You’ve been on it long enough and this stunt proves it.”
He called me Jimmy. My full name was Jimmy Benjamin Gleason. But that wasn’t my real name that was my undercover handle. Just like Roman wasn’t really Roman and Gene wasn’t really Gene. In this line of work no one used their real name and no one you worked with, not even your closest partner asked what your real name was. When I flew off the island, Jimmy would be no more. And in a couple of weeks people who were introduced to me would hear a totally different name.
It was that kind of business. I had known Roman for two years and never knew his real name. Gene had been my handler for three times that long and I didn’t know his real name.
“You’re done working this military shit. You and Roman did a great job for me here even though I know you two were dealing on the side but I let that shit slide because you two produced good cases for me.”
What a line of horseshit, I thought! Gene let us deal on the side because he took a third of the cut but he always acted like he was oblivious to it all just because we always did a money drop so Gene never had to meet us in person to take his cash. Everybody who worked for this company was dirty, especially the handlers.
"So you are fucking done. Get back to your place and pack your shit. You're going to be on the next plane burning off the island."
Who would have ever thought that Hog Boy – a semi-retarded, whittling, jug blowing, meth-head, would have been a confidential informant? But the son of a bitch was. For the DEA no less. And his handler was royally pissed when I beat the holy shit out of him and put him out of commission.
I wasn’t a government agent – local, state, or federal. Far from it. I worked for a contract company, the kind of company that the government hires when a war breaks out and they need someone to do the dirty work – shoot some foreign politician or put a car bomb under the Mercedes of some Arab sheik that won’t play ball with oil prices - but don’t want it tracked back to them. Mercenary work, only I was a different kind of mercenary, I was a mercenary against the “War on drugs.” It paid damn good money, almost five hundred a day and they didn’t give a shit if we smoked dope, shot smack, or snorted coke...it was a requirement of the job. If you want to get deep inside the drug dealing world you won’t last two seconds if whoever you’re dealing with figures out you don’t get high. The downside being that on occasion you had to be pulled off the job to go through detox, but they usually sent you somewhere nice like Betty Ford or some other spa. I didn’t give a shit about the war on drugs. Maybe I did in the beginning but now I was in for the cash and the rush.
But the drawback to the job is if the shit goes down, the company and your handler will drop you like a hot fucking potato. Your file goes through a shredder and you’re left with your ass out in the wind and they never met you much less heard of you. You can’t fault them for it. You were warned before you signed on the dotted line.
Which is what happened to me when Hog Boy’s scorned DEA agent came a calling for some payback. The cocksucker was working undercover with the Reapers and since those agencies don’t share information with my company, I didn’t know it. The agent went by the name of Rash – short for Road Rash – and his association with Hog Boy had been lucrative for him. Hog Boy was diming out his competition and that was keeping him both valuable for the Reapers for cooking their crystal and also keeping him out of the penitentiary.
In my wildest dreams I wouldn’t have thought Rash was an agent. The bastard was pure psycho...he snorted crystal like it was sugar and drank a bottle of Jim Beam, if not more, a night. He was obviously deep undercover and had stepped off into the abyss. When Hog Boy got taken out it was no longer a matter of a cop losing his snitch, to Rash it was personal. Someone has stepped on to his turf and fucked up his operation and his CI and they were going to pay. In spades.
Rash suspected it was me because he had planted cameras in the woods surrounding Hog Boy’s farmhouse and had gotten a partial license number off of my truck when I had parked it down in the ditch the night I gave the beating to Hog Boy.
What happened though was Yolanda got wind of it from Rash’s biker old lady that he had some business to settle with me, she not knowing that I was tapping Yolanda, and Yolanda let me know what Rash was planning.
I wasn’t in my right mind the night Yolanda called the second time to warn me that that night was the night. I had been boozing and snorting meth and for some reason calling Gene never went through my addled brain. So putting my plan into action, I laid down on the roof of my old Winnebago motor home and covered myself with a white tarp to blend in.
For an ounce of weed I had gotten a minimum wage stoner who worked at a downtown clothing store to get me a mannequin. I had put the damn thing in a sitting position by the front window. My trademark with the Reapers was I also wore this Aussie bush hat with a Triumph motorcycle patch on it and I put the hat on the dummy, closed the thin curtains, and dimmed the lights behind it. From a distance it looked like someone sitting there. And I was hoping that Rash would be shit-housed on his usual diet of crystal and whiskey to help cloud his judgement.
I had a twenty-two rifle with a night vision scope and when Rash came walking up the road I put the crosshairs on his chest, just waiting to see just what the hell he had in mind. It didn’t take long to find out. He stopped about twenty yards from the trailer and drew his pistol and assumed a military or cop trained stance and started firing into the Winnebago, the whole time screaming “Die motherfucker, die!” When he burned through the entire clip I put one round into his chest and another into his head.
I buried him way out in a plowed cornfield after I poured bags of lye and lime over him.
Two weeks later the Satan’s Reapers clubhouse was crawling with Feds – cars, trucks, and choppers - and I found myself in the backseat of a cop prowler with cuffs behind my back. They never found his body but they did find slight traces of his blood in the bed of my truck and his government issued pistol hidden underneath the front seat of my truck, plus the Winnebago was punched full of fucking .45 holes. I have to admit that keeping that pistol was a dumb fuck thing to do and my patching the bullet holes with body filler wouldn’t have fooled a retard.
“The next woman that takes me on is going to light up like a pinball machine and pay off in silver dollars” – R. P. McMurphy
I never set foot in a penitentiary. A week in some maximum security county facility and my mind melted down. I was detoxing cold turkey – a guard got a cup of piss thrown in his face through my meal slot and when the goon squad stormed the cell one of them got his nose broken by a wild uppercut, shit was smeared on the walls, I tried to hang myself with a t-shirt in the shower, and my manic screams of - “Call Gene! He’ll explain everything! I’m a contract worked for the CIA, FBI, KGB, IRS! Just call them!” – didn’t help my case at all. When the goon squad stormed me once again, this time they had a syringe full of Thorazine and horse tranquilizers, and when I groggily came to I was in a lockup for the criminally insane.
And now it was time.
The three guards surrounded me as they led me off the unit and down the long urine smelling tiled hallway.
"Good morning to you all," I sarcastically spouted off to the doctor and nurses who stood by the gurney as I was led into the ECT lab. One of the guards removed the cuffs and I laid down on the gurney, I knew the drill.
A blond nurse named Sabrina who had had a bad case of acne as a teenager but now sported an enormous rack to go along with a killer body swabbed my arm with an alcohol swab and inserted the IV. In spite of what was about to happen to me I could feel the stirrings of an erection as I checked out her tits.
Another nurse who I had never seen before and who must have weighed close to 300 pounds immediately inserted a needle into the IV. The first syringe contained a muscle relaxant, the second would put my lights out.
"I'd appreciate it if you could pop a little coke or horse in there while you're at it there, toots." The fat nurse stared blankly at me as she turned and walked away. The last thing I saw before I slipped into unconsciousness was her giant ass.
TRIPLER ARMY HOSPITAL 2015
Doctor Arnold Wright, Army Colonel, led the group of residents down the hallway and up to the door of the max-security psychiatric unit.
Before he unlocked the door he turned to the students, "For you first timers, there's nothing to be afraid of in here. The majority of the patients here are either highly medicated, catatonic, or locked down in their cells if they have shown any violence towards the staff or fellow patients. This unit has the highest staff to patient ratio in Tripler so there is nothing to worry about. But it can still be a dangerous place so just keep your wits about you and you'll be fine. Now with that said, let's head on in."
When the staff stepped on to the unit they were immediately approached by an older patient with long gray hair hanging way past his shoulders with a matching long salt and pepper beard.
"Aloha, Doctor Arnold, how are you this fine Hawaiian afternoon," the patient said with a dramatic bow.
"Fine, just fine, thank you," replied the doctor.
"Glad to hear it. Tell me, doctor, have you heard any news about Roman?"
"No I haven't, Jimmy, but if I do you'll be the first to know."
"My name isn't Jimmy, you asshole! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that?" The patient turned and stormed down the hallway.
Dr. Arnold calmly turned to his group. "A very unusual case. Probably the most unusual on the unit. Back in 1979, Mr. Gleason who was serving in the Navy, was caught in a riptide at Sandy Beach, extremely high on a variety of narcotics, and was swept out to sea. He was eventually rescued by lifeguards and was brought to Tripler in a coma which he remained in for months. When he eventually came out of the coma he was in the very state that you just saw today."
"Who is Roman?" asked one of the residents.
"As far as I know there is no Roman but Jimmy insists that he had a partner named Roman who was swimming with him at Sandy Beach that day but according to the lifeguards no body was ever found and Mr. Gleason was the only swimmer they saw swept out to sea. There are only two things that Mr. Gleason will talk about at length. Has anyone heard anything about Roman. And he claims that he shot a DEA agent somewhere in the midwest while he was an undercover agent and that's why he is locked up here."
"What does he think his name is?" inquired another resident.
Dr. Arnold gave a toothy grin, "He will only answer to Mr. Natural."
Scott L. Anderson