You’ve become known throughout Maine as the supplier of the best cocaine in the whole State. You deal to everyone from the lobster trappers to the bed and breakfast operators to the school kids. It’s safe to say that if you were to die, there wouldn’t be parties in Maine for quite a long time.
“I want to be known for something else,” you think. “I want to run and win a marathon.”
So you enter a marathon in support of some cause or other and you train for months and then when the big day comes, you run your heart out. And when you hit your last five miles, you make sure to do a bump of your own cocaine, which sends you speeding to the head of the pack it's so good. It looks like you’re going to win, but that bump might have been a little too heaping, as you start having major chest pains in your last mile and you end up coming in fourth. You’ll later learn you had a minor heart attack.
“Looks like I was asking for too much,” you think while in your hospital bed. “I got greedy. I wanted all the glory in the state of Maine, so I tried to be known for dealing the best coke as well as winning the big race. I should be happy to be known for anything at all, and goddammit if I die with no more glory than being the supplier of top-notch blow for an entire state, sounds like I can die pretty proud.”
Just then there’s a knock on your hospital room door. When it opens, everyone in Maine is waiting to come in. From the Mayor of Maine on down to the guy who washes dishes at Maine Tavern and Lobsters. They all came to see you and wish you well and buy some coke. Tell them to split up into two lines, one for people who have money, and the other for people who want to know whether they can pay in ass.
“It feels good to be known in your hometown,” you tell them. They all cheer and shout, then a fight breaks out when someone tries to butt into one of the lines. There’s a stabbing.
Happy Best Cocaine In Maine Day!