SO NOW THE CUNT wants to make like Jimmy and me’s some big-time coke dealers. Don’t make me laugh.
I mean, let’s get this straight. You’re not talking to no Nancy Reagan here. Jimmy and me we lit up plenty of weed in our time. If some guy come up to me, said, “Hey, you want a snort?” would I say no? Can’t say I would.
But let me tell you, it don’t happen to guys like Jimmy and me. We’re strictly bargain basement users. A little grass. A lot of beer. Who had the bucks for coke?
Wait’ll my ma hears this about me being a big-time drug dealer. A businessman, like. Man she’ll be proud—her that never thought I’d amount to nothing, with a son that goes around selling cocaine to the white-collar crowd, wad of cash in my pocket, little briefcase maybe, to carry the stuff. Yeah, right. It’ll slay her.
Listen, I done a lot of stuff and I didn’t never say different. Sure I balled my cousin. Stole a rubber dispenser down at the Sunoco. And I helped off Larry Maretto, too. I never said I didn’t. But I wasn’t dealing no cocaine to the poor sucker. If you ask me, the only dangerous substance that guy was hooked on was Suzanne Maretto’s pussy.