"What have you been smoking tonight, Tyrone?" Seth cocked his head and waited for an answer. Baruch continued the attack. "Why should we even trust you?" "Because deep down you know I'm right. And I have evidence." "Keep talking," Seth encouraged him. "Many years ago, when I was in the field..." "Hold it, you were in the field?" Baruch found it hard to believe. "You gotta start somewhere son. Anyways, where was I? Ah yes. Mindin' my own business, followin' orders...running a helluva lotta ops." He paused for a breather. And a sip of coffee. He swore. "They forget how to teach you how many beans to stick in in proportion to the water?" "Why?" Seth countered. "This is potent enough to stick in a spray can instead of that Roundup you get at the hardware store." "Thanks." "Looks like your weed-eaters aren't doing good enough of a job either," Tyrone observed as he stared down a spindly green shoot rising above the edge of the porch. A confused Baruch uttered, "What?" The older man in his fifties rose midway off the bench, enough to stretch out with the cup and empty it over the offending weed.
