Requiem For A Heavyweight

by thoughtsonthedead



“Hey, Benjy? It’s Bob. Bobby? Bob Weir.”


“You in there? I need someone to cut the sleeves off my new Dead shirt for me.”


“Bobby, he ain’t in there.”

“I’m sure this was the case you shipped him to Chicago in, Billy.”

“It is, good eye. But: no.”

“I know I didn’t pack him with my stuff. Did he drive in with John Mayer in his John Mayermobile?”

“No, Bob: I had to let Benjy go.”

“I don’t know how to process this. I’m, you know: agoggle.”

“It was a shock to everyone, Bob.”

“I didn’t see it coming.”

“No one did.”

“Who could have predicted it?”

“No one, Bob. No one at all.”

“Huh. How’d you do it?”

“Well, we got nice and fucked up–”

“Sure, yeah.”

“–and then we got in the car. Took a nice long drive into the country. I pulled over to the side of the road and tossed a bag of coke out the passenger window. When he went to get it, I sped off. Broke my heart.”

“Losing a close friend?”

“No, I meant to throw fake coke, but I threw a real eight-ball. So I went back to get it and punched Benjy in the dick for a solid twenty minutes.”

“That must have been tough.”

“It was for him.”