Dave 420 leaned back in the haze of smoke curling from his spliff, his eyes hidden behind dark shades. Across from him, Sterling Archer swirled a glass of Seagram’s, already half gone.
“Archer, my man,” Dave said in his slow Rasta cadence, “that Babylon juice you keep drinkin’? It cyan’t help you. Seagram’s liquor just mash up your liver, ya hear?”
Archer raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah, well, I think my liver was doomed the second I joined ISIS. Or maybe the third martini. Hard to keep track.”
Dave shook his head, puffing again before continuing. “You ever watch The Harder They Come, bredren? Jimmy Cliff show us the truth in that picture. Man fight the system, fight the oppressor, but he keep his spirit free with the herb—Jah’s medicine.”
Archer leaned back, feigning interest but clearly sizing up the joint. “So what you’re saying is… ditch the whiskey, smoke the reefer, and I’ll suddenly become a revolutionary reggae icon?”
Dave grinned, holding out the spliff like it was holy communion. “Nah, mon. But you might live long enough to see forty-five.”
Archer sighed, snatched the joint, and muttered, “Well, I’ve done worse for less.”
