Dear readers, tonight we reprint an interview held at a coffee shop with a homeless, disbarred lawyer, living on the streets of a city filled with monsters. Here’s here to tell us about the problems he faces, from drugs to werewolves.
-I’m here with Benjamin Salazar, Esq.
Mister Salazar, could you please tell us a little about where you grew up. Paint a picture. What was it like there?
Well. I grew up in the old mill city of Colton Falls, Massachusetts during the 1960’s, and what I erroneously believed, at the time, was the Golden Age of recreational drug abuse.
Little did I know my childhood experimentation with heroin and horse tranquilizers would pale in comparison to the shit the kids are pushing up their arms today.
I know, I know. You see it, too. Jesus.
These kids today. Am I right?
Practically have drugs handed to them. Have everything handed to them. Don’t even have to work for it, that’s the problem. Have it prescribed by their doc or delivered by some kid named Tad who drives an Acura and lives in an old Victorian on Main Street in uptown USA.
The good shit, too. The hard shit. Synthetics straight out of China. Fentanyl. Carfentanyl. Pure. Uncut.
Man oh man…
And when they inevitably OD?
Jesus, everyone’s packing Narcan these days. Everyone. They’re literally giving it away. (Salazar digs into his briefcase and slaps a fistful of blister packs of Narcan on the table.)
But me? My day?
I had to trudge uphill through sleet and rain to score my overdose. Both ways. Into rough neighborhoods. Lawrence. Lowell. Downtown Colton Falls.
Black kids beat me up. Hispanic. White. Vietnamese. Everyone.
Jesus, even Jewish kids beat me up. My own people. And do you know how many Jews live in the Merrimack Valley?
-Uh … no. (The waitress brings us our coffees.)
About five. Really. Counting me. And they all beat me up.
Every. Single. One.
I mean, they’d take turns. Crazy, right? And one of them was my first cousin.
And … she was a girl.
-Okay, that’s … kind of sad, I guess. Maybe we should just move on. I notice you have esquire appended to your name.
Just what the hell are you getting at? (Salazar rips his glasses off.)
-It means ‘attached.’ I think.
Oh. Well. (He fixes his tie and sits back down.) Sorry about that.
Yeah. Yeah. I used to be a lawyer. A trial lawyer. Damn good one, too. That’s why I had the ‘esquire,’ ahem, appended … to my name.
Now though? I just keep it there cause I’m used to it and, truth be told, I’m a bit of a douche bag.
-A what? Oh. Never mind. Uh … so you retired from practicing law?
Retired? With the fat 401k and vacation home in the Berkshires? (Salazar takes a sip of coffee, waves a hand.)
Naw. I wish.
I was disbarred, y’see?
It’s that same old story. Perjury. Kickbacks. Abusing power. Clients. Drugs. Attempted murder.
-Wow. What a … a colorful career.
Career? Hell no, that was just my first trial.
During the opening statements.
Man, I’d gobbled down a fist full of magic mushrooms this dirty old hippy traded me for a ’63 Impala. I thought my hair was on fire!Continue reading “Benjamin Salazar, Esq. (of Monster City, by Kevin Wright)”