"Are you Jack Reacher?"
"Who's asking?"
"We are."
"Why do you want to know?"
"It's just that you look a lot taller than you did in the film."
Reacher stood up to his full 6ft 6in. Time to show these Scientology schmucks a thing or two. He threw a long left hook and twisted his shoulders. Both men sank like puppets, their heads as dented as a dented '73 Chevy.
It had been a long journey back to DC. It wasn't easy travelling when you smoked so much dope. Last night he had got so out of it, he couldn't remember where he left his clothes and had had to buy new pants.
"I've come to see Major Susan Turner," he said.
"Why?" asked the guard at the camp.
"I liked the sound of her voice."
"Well, she's left. And while you're here we're busting your ass for a manslaughter you committed 16 years ago when you were in the army. And for having a daughter from a one-night stand with Candice Dayton."
"You're talking shit."
"You can't remember because you were too stoned. Now I suggest you run for it before you do time."
Reacher rolled a joint. Several hours later, he sprang Major Turner out of prison.
"How did you know where I was?" she asked.
"I just figured if the army were pinning phoney charges on me it had to be because they didn't want me to get to you."
"But we've never met."
"We have now. So tell me what you know about Afghanistan."
"I don't know anything about Afghanistan."
"You must do."
"Have you been smoking dope again?"
"No."
"You certainly write as if you have."
"You have to know something about Afghanistan. It's the only possible reason they wanted to keep us apart."
"You're right. I've remembered something about Afghanistan."
"Great. Now we've got to get out of DC before the police, FBI and the army get us."
Reacher leaped over a light aircraft before nailing seven thugs armed with Glocks with precision blows to their necks.
"Does dope make you psychotic?" Turner asked.
"No. I'm always like this," he said. "Now we need some money."
"Where do we get it from?"
Reacher paused a long moment.
"Here," he smiled, pointing to a nearby crystal meth factory that was on fire.
After smoking several pipes, Reacher and Turner got undressed.
"Wow," she gasped. "You're feral."
"That's feral from the Latin for iron, right?" Reacher said, as Turner ran her fingers over his bullet-marked body.
"We need to get to LA to see if that girl really is your daughter."
"Sure. As long as I can take out several hillbillies and paralyse a couple of bad guys on the plane."
Reacher checked his shirt. "Damn. I've gouched out again and the joint has burned holes. We'll have to stop by a store to get another one."
Out in LA, Reacher smiled grimly as the body count grew ever higher.
"So it looks as if you didn't commit the manslaughter and the girl wasn't yours," Turner said, kissing him passionately.
"Yeah. Just shows that just because you're too stoned to remember something, it don't follow you did it. By the way, I've got your Afghan problem sorted. Turns out some top Pentagon guys are running an opium den."
"Jesus. You're obsessed. It's time to make your mind up. Me or the drugs."
Reacher looked at his stash. It was no contest. The drugs won every time. "Sorry," he shrugged, walking alone into the next story.
Digested read, digested: My name is Jack and I'm an addict.
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