“Do you guys have a plan?” the man inquired. If Jabba the Hut had a better-looking brother, he had somehow found his way to the State Fair. The ash from his cigar dangled, waiting for its weight to become great enough to make it disintegrate and fall to the ground.
Only because he was in a good mood from the $10,000 victory and his anticipation of the Manny’s filet did Adam decide to humor the questionably heterosexual, red-headed, Rastafarian wannabe. “Weddings and local joints,” Adam answered, trying to sound seasoned.
“That’s no plan at all, brother…unless, of course, you guys are just hoping to be some local two-bit group. I’m not talking about that shit, brother. Ohhhhh noooo,” he said, shaking his head, causing the dreadlocks to fly through the air. “I’m talking the big time, baby!” he exclaimed, daintily taking the remains of the cigar out of his mouth and using it like a pencil to draw an exclamation point in the air.
Why am I talking to this moron? Adam thought, realizing he had to pick up Jen in an hour. But he couldn’t help himself. It was like driving by an accident; he had to look. “Well, we are looking for a manager,” he admitted.
When the stranger’s eyes lit up, Adam regretted saying it. Unless this guy had the most unbelievable connections in the world, there was no way Adam could sell him to his group. He’d known him for barely a minute.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the man teased.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. You’re thinking, ‘Who in the hell does this fat idiot think he is?’” the man said, smiling.
“Okay, but I wasn’t thinking fat,” Adam lied.
“Gay?”
“No,” he lied again.
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