Load Up the Mazer Pipes

I swallowed the bag of grass just before the door blew open. Five cops piled into the room. I dropped into the fetal position and they ran past me. My breathing became harder. I crawled behind the sofa and chewed a hole in the upholstery. A plain clothed cop walked in and pointed his gun at me.
“What’s going on here?” he said.
“They went upstairs.” I pointed.
“Yeah. They got who they wanted. I’m asking about you.”
“Oh. I’m just getting my wallet.”
“Don’t move your fukin hands.” He walked toward me very slowly.
“I wouldn’t…”
“Shut the fuk up,” he said. He crouched down and looked into the sofa. An arrow pierced through the back of his head and he collapsed. A dwarf clone of Chuck Norris dove out of the sofa into a ninja roll and then kip-upped onto his feet.
“Where too boss?” he said.
“We’ll take the back exit. Can you drive?”
“Sure boss.”
“Actually, I’ll drive and you man the thermal cannons,” I said.
We slipped out the back door and into the tool shed. I jumped into the driver seat and punched the lift rockets to life. Chorris armed the thermal cannons and loaded up two mazer rifles.
I could hear people running around outside.
“Lets move it,” said Chorris.
I slammed the accelerator to the ground and pulled back on the steering column. Nothing.
“Fuk!” I yelled.
“The parking break.”
I pulled parking release and we blasted through the roof of the tool shed and flew into the sky. When we reached a high enough altitude, I slowed down and aimed toward Baltar Hampoon 35.
“I’m gonna put it on auto-pilot for a second, I got to take a massive shit.”
“Want some prunes or figs?” Chorris pulled out a leather bag filled with all sorts of dried fruit.
“No thanks. But I could use some mineral oil if you have any.”
“Course.” He pulled out a beaker and I pounded 350 ml.
I grabbed onto the hand rails and started my deep breathing cycle. I inhaled for seven seconds, held it for twenty eight, and then exhaled for fourteen. After my third cycle I was ready. I took a huge breath and exhaled as fast as I could. I kicked my right knee up to my forehead and tightened my stomach muscles and a stinging log of dump and plastic bag jammed out my ass into the mesh net. The poo slopped through the holes and my bag of precious weed was left drooping in the net.
“Who wants to get roasted?” I asked.
2) We slowed down as the police cruiser flew in behind us. I turned off the phase propulsion and switched to hover mode. Chorris puffed one more time on his blunt and threw it into the trash port.
“What’s the plan boss?” he said.
“You just keep your cool. Don’t fire unless I say so.”
“Think you can talk your way out of this one?”
“I’m hoping so.”
The officer pulled up next to me and locked onto our engine. He waited a second while his computer printed out our record and then he opened our entry hatch. His holster was unbuttoned.
“License and registration please. And could you have your friend step away from the artillery.”
“Chorris, take a seat.”
“Do you know why I stopped you?” the officer asked.
“No idea. I just came back from my Grandma’s rest home. We were…”
“Yeah fine. Anyway, I stopped you because there was smoke coming out of your solar vent.”
“Oh. We had it open I guess.”
“Yeah. You might have. My spectrometer measured a high concentration of THC in the smoke. Have either of you been smoking hash or marijuana?”
“I have sir,” said Chorris. “I have a lung condition.”
“Do you have records to prove that?” said the officer.
“Sure do.” Chorris slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it up and showed the officer his Bluntmaster card.
“Works for me. Alright. Its probably good that you keep the vent open and remember not to drive when you are high. Unless you were high when you learned to drive.”
“I was not sir,” said Chorris.
“Well you two have a safe trip to wherever you’re going.” The officer closed the hatch and released us from engine lock. I re-primed the phase drive and eased out into space.
“Fukin asshole,” said Chorris, “I should have plastered him.”
“Great. That’s just what we need.”
“It would have made for a better story.”
“Sure. But at least now you’ll live to tell this one. Looks like we got another fifteen hours till we land. Another round of bingers?”
Chorris unlatched the hookah and threw in a brick of white widow. I recharged the cooling chamber and primed the charcoal.
I took a long smooth breath of smoke and kicked the captains chair into zombie position. My feet were resting on the dash and my head was sunk back into the cushion. Chorris tuned the hi-fi to the soul music station and cranked up the bass.
“Quadruple Fudge Pistacio Queefpaste,” I said, loud enough for the concession-bot to hear and it whirred to life. A hose dropped from the ceiling into my mouth and I let the ice cream ooze into my stomach. A couple minutes later I dozed off into a dream.
3) My seat flipped back into operating position and I work up with a start. The monitor flashed twenty five minutes. We were almost to our destination. I shook Chorris but he didn’t move. I shook him again and he fell off the chair. I kicked him and he rolled under the back seat.
“Come on hogg. We’re setting down in a half hour.”
He jumped up and landed in a horse stance. He whipped out a couple panther punches and a round house kick and then sat back into his chair.
“That was pretty good, huh?”
“Not bad. You still have work to do on your breathing though.” Chorris used to be a magician’s apprentice. He’s performed his dead humanoid trick across the galaxy.
We prepared for the landing and then jettisoned the last of our contraband. We had never been to this planet before and we didn’t want to take any chances.

Did somebody say POONGRISTLE?

JT always laughed when Billy said “poongristle.” Sometimes in class, after the teacher asked a particularly difficult question, Billy would raise his hand and bounce in his seat as if he had the answer. The teacher would grudgingly call on him, hoping that this time would be different. Billy would stand up slowly and say, “Could the answer possibly be POONGRISTLE?” and then he would reach into his pants, pull out a handful of shit and throw it at the hamster cage.
Billy wasn’t really one of JT’s friends though. Billy was part of the cool plus crowd. The coolest of the cool. The guys that got the chicks, the chicks, and the fukin chicks. Billy’s dad, Ralf and JT’s dad, Grout were good buddies though. They were on the same bow hunting team.
Last weekend Ralf threw a big party cause they placed third in the national bow hunting championships. Grout asked JT if he wanted to go but JT said he had too much studying to do. Grout told him about all the cool shit in Ralf’s backyard, so JT decided to go.
JT walked around the backyard to find Billy. Billy was in the Jacuzzi teabagging their math teacher, Mrs. Thompson. JT eased into the Jacuzzi and started talking to a girl smoking a hash pipe.
“How’s it going, my name’s JT,” he said.
“I’m Margerie. How do you know Billy?” she said.
“Oh, we’re in the same English class.”
“You go to Weed High?”
“Yeah. Do you?” JT asked.
“No, but I will be next semester. We just moved here.”
“Where’d you move from?”
“Chicago. Billy and I are cousins.”
“Cool. So you’ve known him for a while?” said JT.
“Yep. You smoke hash?”
“Naw. My dad’s here. I mean, I have before. I smoked marijuana. It’s like marijuana right?”
“Yeah. I think it’s better though. Here, I’ll give you a little piece.”
“Cool. I’ll smoke it when I get home.”
Margerie laughed. “It’s not for later. Stick it up your butt.”
“Stuff it in my butthole?”
“Yep. Here watch, I’ll do it. It gives you a raging high.” Margerie ripped off a small piece of hash and stuffed it into her butt.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” asked JT.
“Ain’t you ever been cornholed?” asked Margerie. “I’m just kidding. It’s like taking a reverse poo, it’s no big deal.”
JT stuffed the hash in his butt and then took a drink of his weight gainer power shake.
“What’s cool is if you want to get high quicker, you can shoot it farther up your ass by sitting against a jet.” She hoisted herself up a little and let the jet blast into her keester.
JT stood up and stepped out of the jacuzee. “I got to go to the bathroom.”
“Don’t shit it out. That’s good hash.” She said.
JT stumbled towards the bathrooms and ran into the caterer fixing the chips and salsa.
“Is there any hurl in that salsa?” asked JT.
“What is hurl?” said the caterer.
JT barfed in the salsa bowl and then pissed in the bag of chips.
“There you go,” he said and then walked into the house.
Grout and Ralf were sitting at the bar examining Grout’s latest purchase. A lazer sighted compound bow made of a graphire substrate with a fission powered string equalizer.
“God damm Ralf, are you even gonna need me on your team?” said Grout.
“Of course fukbroiler. That one is for you. I’ve got two more just like it.”
“You’re fukin kidding right?”
“Nope.”
Grout noticed JT staring at them.
“You OK son?”
“Oh yeah. I’m great. That’s one mean looking bow Dad. What are you gonna do with your old one?” said JT.
“This thing is for show. It’s not legal for competition. Is it Ralf?”
“Naw. Not yet. But I got some friends working on it,” said Ralf.
“Some ninjas?” said Grout.
“Yep. Straight from feudal Japan. Cost me a fortune, but they should give the league chairman some good reasons to bend the rules a little bit. Every sport has to evolve right?”
“Evolve or die,” said JT.
Everyone started laughing.
“That’s right kid. That’s one smart boy, Grout. One smart boy. You know my Billy from school right?”
“Yeah. We’re in the same English class.”
“How is he doing? I’m always getting calls from my teacher about him disrupting class. Is that true.”
“Oh. No more than anyone else. It’s a pretty lively class.”
“That’s good.”
“Dad, I need to get my bong out of the car,” said JT.
Grout threw the keys and took a hit from his speefnarkle. JT walked out to the car and popped the trunk. He unzipped his backpack and took out all the schoolbooks. His bong was gone. JT played the day’s events back in his head and said the F word out loud. He left his bong at the rec center. He and Dusty were playing bumper pool and smoking bongloads behind the raquetball courts. “Fuk!”
Grout closed the trunk and wandered down the street to the liquor store. The cashier was teabagging his math teacher, Mrs. Thompson.
“Where are your chocco tacos?” said JT.
“Are you roasted?” said the cashier.
“Yeah. I’m frying pretty bad.”
“On acid? Are you seeing trailers?”
“No. I put some hash in my rectum.”
“You keestered hash? Tits. I know the perfect treat,” said the cashier, “Get a couple of those cheap fudge bars and squirt some of that chili on it.”
“Jeezus, are you sure? Sounds like a dog fart on a stick.”
“That’s rich. Trust me. I keester all the time. It’s where it’s at. If you don’t like it, come back and I’ll give you a chocco taco for free.”
“Alright.” JT reached down into the freezer and pulled out the fudge bars. He smashed them into a nachos tray and then squirted some chili onto it. “There’s no way I can eat this pile of fukmunch.” He took a spork and started chowing into it. It didn’t agree with his stomach. He bent over and started breathing heavily. His head started turning purple.
The cashier ran over to help him but he was too late.
JT pulled down his pants and launched a firehose of acid diarrhea all over the cereal boxes. The cashier pulled out a fly swatter and scraped part of the wall. He pulled out his hash pipe and brushed the tomato skins off the hash piece. He ripped into the hash and finished it in one puff.
“That ought to teach you to trust a hash junkie,” said the cashier.

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