14:1 Lost Footage: Enrique Bravocado



You could say that I was in on the ground floor of the intentional community at Milakale. I actually ran into Zongo in the Men’s room of the Lihue Airport right after he had come back from the mainland. There I was—delivering a package in one of the stalls—when this bindle of coke, all folded up in a honey cut out of the pages of Playboy, bounced under the divider. Miss August, I believe. I recognized … never mind.

There she was—lying on the tile smiling up at me, and not a word from the next stall over. I guess he must have been judging the situation, you know, whether I was cool, or whether he was going to have to leg it. I let him sweat it out for a couple of beats, and then let him off the hook.

“Well, hello, woman of my dreams,” I rapped. “Who is crazy enough to leave you here unchaperoned?” I heard Zongo clear his throat and call out, “A little help.” Needless to say, once Miss August found the guy who brought her to the party, all three of us had a real good time; if imagining an image of yourself naked, objectified, and used to transport drugs could be considered a good time. Which, I imagine, some actually might.

Look, I don’t want to give the wrong impression here, a woman’s body is a beautiful and sacred thing … I don’t want to … can we start over?

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