He was peddling speed and coke, a very flashy dealer in tapestry bell-bottoms, yellow ruffled shirt, leather coat, leather headband, long hair flowing down to his shoulders. We walked together for a minute going up past City Lights Bookstore.
“Naw, that’s bullshit, man, ’cause I’ve been hassled with again. If they come they’d better come in pairs ’cause one isn’t going to do it and if he shoots he’d better kill me ’cause I’ll shoot the fucker if he misses and if he kills me then I’m free ’cause when you’re dead you’re free.”
Then: “I want to be free and we can’t be free as long as one of those pigs is alive.”
Then: “No narc would come up here, man, ’cause if they did they’d be killed with fucking butcher knives.”
Another cat with long hair and narrow stovepipe bells was standing at the corner waiting for the light. He overheard us.
“With machine guns, man,” this guy said, “every fuckin’ one of them.”