Wilson felt fukin incredible. He felt better than incredible. Today was the best fukin day of his life. He now had the ultimate power. What all humanoids dream about. Well not all humanoids. At least all the ones that lived in Wilson’s alley.
“Wilson. Can you turn this pile of match heads into crack rocks?” said his buddy Krogh.
“Cover your eyes,” said Wilson. He aimed his index finger at the pile and recited a secret code. It puffed into a cold smoke and turned into crack.
“You do realize that you still owe me money for the last two times,” said Wilson.
“I know. I’m still trying to get you a date with my sister.”
“Yeah. I figured. Just keep that in mind when you’re cooking those rocks.”
Krogh wandered behind some pallets to inhale the crack.
“Fuck it,” said Wilson to himself. He whipped out his trusty marker and a piece of cardboard.
Free Drugs. Bring your garbage and The Majestic Wilson will turn it into drugs. Five different choices.
He got on his razor scooter and rode to the dump. The Majestic Wilson was open for business.
The city dump was filled with all sorts of riff raff. His cousin Meat Scrap lived in an old VW Beetle carcass. When Wilson rode up, Meat Scrap was cooking breakfast.
“Smells good. What you brewin’ up?” said Wilson.
“Cousin Wilson. It’s been a long time since you’ve visited. I heard you got something to show me?”
“Sure do. First off though, do you have any coffee?”
“Yep. I’m boilin the water right now. You don’t mind cowboy style do you?”
“Long as it don’t taste like cow pussy.” Wilson chuckled. Meat Scrap laughed.
“Shit. I sure could use a nice cool bong rip. I got these pains in my stomach from who knows what?”
“You low on THC. Have no fear!” Wilson jumped up on the bumper of the car and pointed his finger at an empty milk carton.
The milk carton was now overflowing with luscious Humbolt Crippler.
“Holy fukpaste,” yelled Meat Scrap.
“Enjoy. I’m off the weed for a while. I smoked so much last week that it stopped making me high.”
“I know,” said Wilson. Pass that bong when you’re done. You ain’t using frog piss for bong water anymore are you?
“Nope. Got warts in my lungs. I was hacking up puss for a month. One of the dumbest things I’ve ever done.”
“Dumber than hot knifing grasshoppers?”
“Dumber than that,” said Meat Scrap.
They ripped through the carton of grass. Meat Scrap poured the coffee and dished out the woodpecker stew.
“Mmmmm mmmm mmmmm mm mmmmmmm. This is some fukin good coffee, bud.”
“Thanks,” said Meat Scrap. “I found a five pound bag of Peet’s in their dumpster. It’s from Columbia. There’s probably cocaine in it.”
“Let’s hope. In fact, you have any sugar?”
“What about some sand or dirt?”
“Dirt don’t hurt.” Wilson scraped together a four foot rail of dirt and then aimed his finger at it.
The dirt transformed into cocaine.
“That shits pure so take it easy,” said Wilson.
Meat Scrap had the first go at it. He rode it down to the end and then slammed his head back.
“Holy crapfire. That’s some good coke.”
“Couldn’t control yourself, huh?”
“You know me, cousin. When theres coke, I snort. When there’s H, I inject. Where there’s X, I pop. I was born to abuse drugs. That’s my gift.”
“I know. I’m trying to quit the snort sports anyway.”
“Try that fukin stew. Killed me that woodpecker last night. It was perched on a telephone pole. I speared it myself.”
“You speared it?”
“Yep. Speared it. Technically I atlatled it.”
“You got it. It’s like an ancient spear with a launching stick. Aztec shit.”
“Well whatever, I’ve got the munchers.”
Wilson chowed the stew and pounded the coffee. “I hate to eat and run, but I got some shit to do before the onslaught of winos and junkys.”
“I understand man. You should come by more often. Or I’ll make it out to your alley sometime. You know these dumps. I’m so comfortable here, it’s hard to get the motivation to leave.”
Wilson took off on his scooter and hit the recycling center. A couple of his close buds were there. Torch, Fesker and Boil were pumping fortys into the glass recycler.
“Wilson,” said Fesker, “what’s the felch. I heard you got some special powers. That true?”
“Sure is fuks. I’ve got the gift.” Wilson pointed his finger at a bag of empty bottles.
“There you go buckwolves, liquid acid. Time to get your fry on.”
“HOLY SHIT!” yelled Boil. He cracked a bottle and downed it. “Yep, that’s LSD alright.”
“Enjoy. And tell your friends. The first conversion is always free.”
Wilson scooted back to his home. He spread a new pile of newspapers on the ground and duck taped a hole in the wall. The folk started arriving. Wilson put out a fresh bowl of MDMA.
“Line up everybody. Line up. Your first one is free. If you don’t have something to convert, there’s trash cans everywhere. Grab something, anything. Step right up.”
The first customer was this old fuker Wilson always saw in the library. He was always wearing a t-shit with the word “POOTER” in puffy letters on the back. Wilson motioned him forward.
“What’s your poison, brother?” said Wilson.
“Heroin. I haven’t tried that yet. I’ve got to warn you, the heroin I make might be a hundred percent pure, so you’ll want to cut it with something.”
“Sure. Whatever you say. If this really works.”
“It should. I’ve made all sorts of drugs today. H should be no problem.”
Pooter put a pile of old rotting socks on top of the box.
“Are you sure you don’t want those?” said Wilson. He pointed his fingers at the pile.
The socks turned into a pile of white powder. Pooter dipped his pinkie into the pile and rubbed it on his tongue.
“Crap. What the hell is this?”
“Heroin,” said Wilson. “You asked for heroin, that’s heroin.”
“This ain’t no fukin heroin. It’s, it’s cream of tartar.”
Wilson took a dip of it and put it in his mouth. “You’re right. Fuk! You ruined it old man. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to convert those fukin socks. Why couldn’t you have brought something normal. Look behind you, every one of those people brought something normal. You brought a pile of wet sweaty rotting socks.”
“Those weren’t socks, those were my rubbers,” said Pooter.
“Fuk. Those were your monkey chokers? No wonder. I can’t convert animal products or anything made out of sheepskin. Next please.”
Pooter walked down the alley and passed out under some 2by4s.
Wilson spent the rest of the day making drugs and then he went to sleep. That night Weedbug crawled out of his nose and into Pooter’s ear. When Wilson woke up the next day, his powers were gone.
Wilson felt fukin incredible. He felt better than incredible. Today was the best fukin day of his life. He now had the ultimate power. What all humanoids dream about. Well not all humanoids. At least all the ones that lived in Wilson’s alley.
I was firing out a hot piss in the men’s room when a barrage of metallic fart sounds pounded out of the shitters. Then something yelled and launched up through the ceiling. I kicked the stall open and there was a pile of glowing rods overflowing the toilet. The hole in the ceiling went up through another two floors and out the roof.
I ran up the stairs to the roof access door and picked the lock. The hole was smoking and a guy in a trench coat and army boots was unconscious on the ground. The back of his coat was ripped open and there were wires coming out from his spine. I called the emergency squadron and rolled a scoob. The minute I sparked it up the guy started moving around. His eyes opened and he tried to talk.
I moved closer.
He was mouthing something. I could not understand the words. I moved in so that I could hear. His arm snapped out and grabbed my throat.
“It ain’t polite to smoke reefer without sharing,” he said. He seemed to be able to talk now.
“Shit buddy, you can have this joint. You took some real damage going through the roof.”
“There were uranium bits in my cereal this morning. I knew this would happen.”
“There was a pile of glowing sticks in the shitter,” I said.
“Yep. Depleted uranium. It’s this new diet my doc put me on. I guess it’s better then the barium enemas but sometimes, usually after a hard session at the brothels, it affects my constitution.”
“I gotta jam. There should be some medics arriving any second.”
“Right on friend. Thanks for the doob.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
I took off down the stairs just in time to see the ambulance arrive. “He’s on the roof,” I said as I passed.
The bus arrived three minutes early. I walked to the back where the drunks and punkers were and took a seat.
“Hey bro, you got any buds?” said the wino next to me.
“Yeah. How much you want?”
“Oh,” he said. “I only got four cents.”
“Four cents. Hold on.” I broke out my calculator and calculated the weight. “That’s about seven thousandths of an eigth.” I pulled out a nug and my pocket scale. I weighted out the weed. “You want it in a baggie?”
“No,” he said. “I’m gonna smoke it right now.”
I poked the flake with a sewing needle and handed it to him. He made a funnel with newspaper and lit it up the grass with a blowtorch.
“That was some heavy fukin bash,” he said.
“You bet yer cornhole. I get from an ogre.”
“An ogre? Does he live under the freeway?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Man. I used to rock climb under there. Fukin cranked out some mean traverses. Until I lost my soul to a pack of white wizards.”
“No shitboard. Mages. Magicians. Spell casters. I was real high on methodone, my buddy Charles and I were trying to moonwalk up the riverbank and we heard the huge metallic fart noise. I thought it was a helecopter crashing but when we went to look there was a pack of old dudes with long beards making butsex with the cheerleading team on a huge mattress in the middle of the bamboo.”
I handed him another micro nugget from my stash. He fired it down and burped.
“Thanks. Anyway. One of the old guys saw me and motioned me over there. I wanted to get in on the action so I went over. Next thing you know I’m pakin this hot broad and she turns over and her nose is reversed. It goes inside her face instead of poking out like ours.”
He reached up and pulled the stop wire.
“So I try to pull my pud out and it’s stuck inside of her. She’s got it trapped. One of the old dudes comes up and asks if I worship the devil. I said ‘Of course’ and he reached up my ass and pulled out this glowing rod. I think it was my soul.”
“That’s rotten. What’s it feel like without a soul?”
“Like. You ever seen those people that crowd around when there’s an accident just to watch? Or people that, well shit this is my stop, I gotta get off.”
“Right on buddy,” I said. “It was nice talking to you.”
“You to pal. How about another nug for the road?”
“Can’t do it,” I said. And then I handed him a fistful. “Just kidding. Keep smoking.”
“It’s the only reason I get up in the morning,” he said and stepped off the bus.
I got off at my usual stop and unlocked my bike. There was a note taped to the handle bar. It said “YOU ARE NEXT”. I looked around and then put it into my pocket. I checked the tires and the spokes and rode out to my dealer’s.
Bargain Lou lived in a lean-to in the middle of Featherly Park, what passed for a forest on the outskirts of Orange County. I rode along a dirt road for a while and then turned of into the brush. I ditched my bike and crawled through a dry sewage tube to the other end. Lou was lazing in his hammock smoking a hookah, reading a mag. I snuck up behind him and poked his head with a stick.
“DEA,” I yelled. “Get up slowly.”
He dropped the mag and shit his pants. I walked up.
“Oh you fukkker,” he said. “I just ruined my last pair of choners.” He shook his boot and a little glowing bar dropped out of his pant leg.
“Shit bro. That’s the second time today I’ve seen a glowing turd.”
“Yeah. I’ve been blasting them out my ass all morning. It’s this new cereal I tried. There was a coupon in the newspaper.”
“Well that’s great and all, but I didn’t come here for small talk. Where’s my fukin weed?”
“Run, don’t walk to your nearest crack dealer cause there’s never been a sale like this!”
When I heard that ad on the radio I wondered who was the idiot behind this? I need more crack hits like I need another hole in my lungs. It was fukers like that that were making it real hard for me to keep my three week promise, and I still had two and a half weeks left.
But. I couldn’t resist. I hopped on the bus and headed toward central park. It was standing room only. Every crack addict from here to chicken fuk new jersey were piled on. All heading to get their share of cheap crack.
I got off at Jefferson and hit my bank for some cash. A wino was sleeping underneath the ATM. I tapped him.
“Buddy. Buddy. You still alive?”
“Shiiit.” He barfed up a chicken carcass. “Shit.”
“Buddy. There’s a huge crack sale. You don’t want to miss this one.”
“I don’t smoke crack son. I’m a wino,” he said.
“Well there’s no reason not to start today. I’ve been smoking crack about half my life and nothing like this has ever happened.”
“It’s probably a trick.”
“How do you mean? It was on the radio.”
“Yeah. The same thing happened about twenty years ago,” he said. “I was headed to a huge wino convention. Ten minutes after the introduction speech, the police sealed up all the exits with concrete and I spent two weeks trapped with three thousand stinking winos.”
“That was back then. This is just crack.”
“That’s what they want you to think. Just be careful sonny. You wouldn’t happen to have a couple bucks would you? I’m running real low on weed.”
“Yeah. Here.” I handed him a double sawbuck and then headed down the sidewalk.
“If you’re smart, you’ll give up those devil rocks,” he shouted.
“Point well taken delegate,” I called back.
On the way to the park I got to thinking about what the wino said. A giant trap. Trap all the crack fiends in and drop a bomb on them. Or worse yet, lace the crack with some strychnine and exterminate them all. I became paranoid and turned around. It was not the right day for a crack fix. I decided to blast some weed instead. I finished all my weed the night before so I ran to my friend Jerrry’s house to score some buds.
Jerrry was adjusting his low rider bike on the front lawn. “What’s up dickweasel?” I said. We low fived and Jerry spat the tobacco out of his mouth.
“Just fixing up my chopper. Why aren’t you at central park. You heard about the sale?”
“Yeah. I’m giving up crack. At least for a couple more days. Just to test myself.”
“You’re a brave man. I wouldn’t survive a day without at least a couple doobs. Speaking of which, it’s time for a grass break. Interested?”
“You don’t have to twist my arm.” I followed Jerrry into the garage. We climbed a ladder into his attic. “You’ve really fixed the place up,” I said.
“Yeah my decorator is from Shanghai. The pillows and drapes really make a big difference. All I need now is some opium and some topless gymnasts to light it.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Jerrry pulled out his box of shake and rolled a couple snowcones.
“What’s with the scraps?” I asked.
“The shake? I’ve been trying to keep it mellow. This is some real mean weed. I’ll throw a couple nugs in your doob if you want?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to forget about that crack.”
We puffed away on the reefer. Jerrry put on some music.
I flopped back on some pillows and exhaled a full lung.
“I could be down there smoking rocks. The prices were incredible. Incredible. 1980s prices.”
“You can still make it if you want. I sure as fuk wouldn’t go though. Imagine the chaos. You’d be lucky to find your mouth to smoke the crack.”
“Brother, I was born to smoke crack. I was smoking crack before it was even invented. Did I tell you about my mom?”
“About how she put the coke in your baby bottle when they went through security?”
“Yep. That was the best day of my life. Coolin’ in my stroller, stoned out of my mind. I was fukin blasted. Didn’t sleep for a month and a half.”
Jerrry checked his watch. “I hate to be a dickloaf, but you got to clear out pretty soon. The missus will be back from aerobics soon.”
“Yeah. It’s cool. I’ll hit the trail in a second. Let me smoke this to the but.”
I zapped that joint and then took off.
My curiosity got the best of me. I walked toward the park to observe from a distance. If they were still selling rocks, I was gonna go for it. After assessing the total picture of course.
The streets leading to the park were covered with people. Some were passed out. Others were jumping up and down. The losers had come out of the woodwork. There were druggies, crack fiends, loadies, toads, rummies, hop heads, stoners, junkies. Everyone was there. I recognized a lot of them from the crack smoking club.
I walked to the center of the park. They were closing up the truck. “Is the sale still going on?” I asked the lady with a hairnet.
“Nope. You’re ten minutes too late. We’re totally empty.”
“FUK! I thought this was a trap. You got a half million junkies lined up for crack. I was sure you guys were gonna bust everyone or drop a bomb or something.”
“Where have you been,” she said, “crack ain’t illegal today.”
“Didn’t you hear? It’s National Coke and Crack Day. In honor of the day our president got busted for cocaine. Now tomorrow may be a different story but not today.”
I kicked the trash can. “That’s my fukin luck. The only day I’m dry is the only day I’m allowed to smoke it.”
“Hey, look. I got a couple rocks in my lunchbox. They pay us in kind. If you want I can give you one?”
“No. Let me pay you for it. That’s very kind of you.”
The day ended on a sad note. Just me and my single rock of crack. I climbed up a tree, strapped myself to the trunk and fired up my little rock. A heavy price to pay for getting paranoid.
Huffing: The Sport of Kings
I remember being a kid getting high on model glue. I had a Daisy Duke C-10 Jeep Eagle that I was assembling in a little laundry room in the basement of my Aunt and Uncle’s house in Colorado. I was down there all day inhaling that shit. I squeezed out line after line on the inside of the model box and held my head over it and breathed as deep as I could. That was the life. Then I pulled out the Playboy I found and got lost in the teats and beavers and bungholes and then the run would wear off and I had a massive headache. The only thing that could cure it was another line of model glue.
Things aren’t much different today. I can say that I have graduated from model glue now, though I was hooked on it for many years. Now, for me, the big huff is octane booster. There are many fine brands on the market, I prefer The Outlaw. I can get it for about four bucks at the local auto parts store and it lasts a long time. One of the most economical highs I have ever achieved. The other brands are just as good but The Outlaw was my first huff.
My pal King Waldorf introduced me to huffing octane booster. He called it poncho or concho, or something like that. We were chilling out, smoking buds in his great room, watching Hollywood High. His butler came in with a couple of drinks and some sandwiches. I scarfed mine down and then reached for the bong.
“Hold off on the weed for a second bro,” said King Waldorf.
“What do you mean hold off? A mans gotta smoke what a mans gotta smoke.”
He reached under his lay-z-boy, pulled out a bottle and tossed it over to me. “Try this on for size,” he said.
“I ain’t drinkin this shit.”
“Crack the top and take a good breath.”
“Oh. It’s for huffin.” I exhaled and then took a nice deep breath of the fumes. My brain started spinning inside my skull. “Hey. That ain’t half shitty.”
“Yeah. It’s the newest thing. Kids everywhere are huffin the fuk out of it.”
“Can I get a sandwich bag or a clean sock? Something I can really soak.”
King Waldorf rang a bell and the butler brought a new pair of socks. I drenched a sock, put it over my nose and kicked the lay-z-boy back into launch position. The fumes tore into my lungs and I was blasted into space. The ceiling looked like an Egyptian turkey dick aimed at my eye. I screamed and everything went blurry.
The next thing I remember, I was running through a narrow canyon with a two handed sword. The water was splashing up to my knees. I was quickly out of breath but I had to keep running. There was the shadow of something very large chasing me. I ran into a dead end and turned around to wait for the shadow beast. Finally it showed up. A puffed out balding guy in a wetsuit pushing a hot dog cart.
“Sylvie! What the fuk are you doing in my dream. I’m high as fuk on Octane Booster!”
“Yeah. I was gonna ask you if you needed your VCR repaired?”
“Actually I do, but maybe when we get back to reality. I’ll give you a call. What’s in that hot dog cart anyway?”
“Remember all those rabbits fukin up a storm in my backyard?”
“Barbequed rabbit dicks. You want to try one?”
“You got that spicy mustard?”
I finished my rabbit dick and Sylvie crawled into his cart and shot off into space. A hole appeared where his rockets had been so I dropped down into the ground. I walked along a tunnel for a while. It opened into a small room. Some voles and earthworms were hanging out playing a board game.
“Am I too late to get in?” I asked.
“No way. If you’re cool being the surgeon?” said the vole with the eye patch.
I sat down and waited for my turn. It was a game similar to Monopoly except every game piece was moving. It looked like a topographic map of Phoenix. Each player zoomed into their property and controlled a number of different people. It was my turn. I pressed a button on the edge of the game board and it zoomed into a mansion. And there I was passed out in a Lay-z-boy with a sock over my nose. I stood on my chair and stepped into the board game.
Suddenly I woke up and shifted my chair back to the upright position. King Waldorf was hanging out giggling like a kid.
“Hell of a trip,” he said.
“Yeah. That was fukkin Tits-O-Riffic!”
I ended up huffin a couple more times that night, and then spent the whole next day huffin, and then the next week, and then I finally quit cold turkey. A day doesn’t go by though that I don’t think about getting me some octane booster. Just to take the edge off.
When I first humped Norma Jean she was working in the library and had five of her front teeth missing. I was hunting down a book on taxidermy and she walked me over to the correct aisle. She leaned over to pull out the Taxidermy Guide Third Edition and I gave her keester a little tap.
“What’d you do that for?”
“What do you mean?”
“You grabbed my but.”
“What? I did nothing of the sort. Is that the book. Is it by Roger Tinsley.”
“Um. Yeah. This is the one.”
“Do you like taxidermy?” I asked.
“Not particularly. I like those big moose heads they have at the ski lodges.”
“Have you seen the ones at Timberline?”
“That big brown bear having sex with the mountain goat?”
“Yep. I did that one.”
“No way. That’s cool.”
“Why don’t you come by my studio?” I asked. “I got a super cool one I’m working on. It’s a mold of a caveman, homo habilis, plowing the turds out of a pteradactyl.”
“We’re not really allowed to see patrons socially.”
“Think of it as research. You’ll be able to file the books in this section a little better.”
“OK. I get off at four.”
“I’ll come get you.”
I pulled up in my van at 3:58 and she was standing next to the book drop. I slid the door open and she jumped in.
“It’s pretty cool back here. Are these reel sheepskins?”
“That’s right, and it spins too.” The entire back of my van was a five foot diameter tube padded in sheep pelts. When I flipped a toggle switch the whole thing rotated lengthwise.
“Where we heading?”
“Didn’t you want to see my studio?” I asked.
“I didn’t really care where we went. I just wanted to see you. See what you were like.”
“Well, you like ice cream?”
“I love ice cream. You like the Dairy Queef?”
“Yeah. Their dipped cones are amazing,” I said. I revved up the van and burned out in the parking lot. She laughed.
“Don’t do that, I work here.”
“Oh sorry, I was just trying to impress you.”
“How fast your car is doesn’t impress me.”
“What does impress you?”
“This rotating cylinder of sheepskin is pretty cool.”
“You want to get ice cream and then turn that thing on?”
“Sure, but no funny stuff.”
“Of course not. I’m a church going man.”
We pulled up to the DQ but the drive up was completely packed. We went inside and waited for the cashier.
“Welcome to Dairy Queef, how can I help you?”
“We want two dipped cones,” I said.
“I don’t want one of those anymore,” said Norma Jean. “I’ll have a poonblaster Gizzard.”
“So one dipped cone and one Gizzard. What type of cone did you want, chocolate on vanilla ice cream?”
The cashier went to the machines and whipped up our desert. Meanwhile, back in my pants, the General was starting to tingle. “Stop that,” I said. Norma Jean was trying to stuff a spoon in my butt. I swatted her hand away.
We walked back to the van with our ice creams and I saw a pallet of whipped cream canisters in the back alley. I pulled the van up and heaved it into the back.
“Buzz bombs. We’re gonna have some fun today.”
“I don’t do drugs. Just so you know,” she said.
“These aren’t drugs. It’s just laughing gas. Nitrous oxide. The same shit your dentist gives you. It’s actually good for you.”
“You’ve tried it before?” she asked.
“Of course. We did a shitload in college. I was the whippet king. One time I was under the gas for two straight days. Got straight A’s that quarter.”
“How do we do it?”
I drove to a secret spot overlooking the ocean.
“What do you think of this view?” I asked.
“It’s great. When can we try the buzz bombs.”
“Hold your horses, little woman.”
I backed up the van and flipped open the rear doors. We crawled into the sheepskin tube and finished our ice creams. I took two of the canisters, shoved them into my nose, and let the nitrous pour into my brain. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuk.
Time slowed to a standstill. The floor started spinning. Norma Jean pulled off her top and her tits were twisting in opposite directions. My hog stretched down to my ankle and looped around my leg, constricting the bloodflow to my foot. I tried to stand up but my other leg was shaking.
Norma Jean was bouncing up and down. “Iiiiiiiiiiiiiii Wwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnntttttt tttttttttooooooo ttttttttttrrrrrrrrryyyyy.”
She reached for a bottle in slow motion and pressed it in her nose. The canister went off and whipped cream shot everywhere. It oozed from her mouth and out her tear ducts. She keeled over backwards and started laughing. The floor was slowly spinning. We rolled around bouncing off each other. Her hard tits scratched my cornea. Finally my nitrous hit wore off and I returned to my normal motor functions. Norma Jean had passed out. One boob was wrapped around her neck and then other was between her legs.
I spun into my captain’s chair and started the engine. Norma Jean woke up and blew the cream out of her nose.
“Holy shit, what happened to me?”
“That’s nitrous for you. Kind of crazy huh?”
“Yeah. I want to do it again.”
“Fine, but not here. Let’s go back to my place and we can try it again in my studio.”
“With all the dead animals watching? No thanks.”
“Trust me. It’s really funny. I get stoned down there all the time. Plus there’s a bunch of formaldehyde. Have you ever smoked cigarettes dipped in formaldehyde?”
“No. Is it like whippet?”
“Totally different, but almost as good.”
“Sure. I’ll try it.”
We walked back into my taxidermy studio and I uncorked a bottle of formaldehyde.
“Take a whiff of this shit.”
“Oh damn. Smells like an old folks home.”
“What? This is good stuff. I’ll pour some on a sock and you can hold it to your nose.”
“Wait. Lets hump on top of that squirrel pelt,” she said.
I couldn’t say no.
It was obvious. We were fucked. Our bad luck started forty eight hours ago when Lithium Jim decided that we should rob a house. We were fukin cruizin on our BMX bikes, poppin wheelees, bunny-hopping curbs, kicking-out our back tires when we heard a scream. I stopped and looked through a crack in the fence. There was a nude woman in her backyard doing yoga on the back of an aardvark. I pulled out my trusty blowgun and loaded it up with a stun dart. Lithium told me to hang on so he could check out the nude. We chilled and stared at her glorious teats. Then after a bit she went inside. The aardvark took a dump into the swimming pool and then went to sleep in its little house. We climbed the trees overlooking the property and waited for something to happen.
After an hour of watching through the windows, the lady got dressed and then headed out to her garage. She got in her Mercedes and took off. That’s when Lithium Jim decided that we needed to rob the place.
“Let’s try to sneak into the house. Nobody’s home,” said Lithium.
“No way man. What if we get caught?” I said.
“Bro. We’re ninjas man.”
“How long do you think she’ll be gone? What if there’s an alarm?”
“There’s no alarm. She didn’t do anything special when she left.”
Lithium loaded up his stunner dart into his blowgun and we walked along the fence to the back roof. The aardvark was fast asleep.
I took out my ninja tanto and popped the lock on the bedroom window. It was easy. Lithium pulled off the screen and slowly stepped into the room. My heart was pounding with the adrenaline.
We opened the closet door and ruffled through the junk. There was nothing cool. We opened the door and went into the main bedroom. I checked under the mattress for money and found nothing. Lithium jumped up and down because he found a pistol in a sheepskin case. It was Browning Hi-Power and it had bullets. We were so fukin stoked that we took off back out the window.
We rode our bikes back to our ninja cave and pulled out our prize. This was big news. This meant that we would have some serious assault power. Sure, traditional ninjas didn’t use guns, but we were going modern. Our possibilities for missions had now increased by a factor of a thousand.
I set up a target made of phone books and a cantaloupe. Lithium put a wig on it and we took turns firing bullets into it. It was so fun that we went through all our bullets. Shit. Where were we gonna get more? A gun shop? Not at age twelve.
We rode our fukin BMX bikes to Alex’s house. He was in my Spanish class. He always bragged about being able to buy triple-burst machine guns and stuff like that. I tried to buy an automatic BB gun from him once but it never materialized. We needed bullets this time. Surely he could get some. So we knocked on his door and he invited us in. He introduced us to his brother Russell. Russell was the one who had the connections. He knew lots of gangsters from Los Angeles. Both Bloods and Crips. Cool, I thought, this guy will get us the goods.
“What kind of bullets do you need?” asked Russell.
“Hollowpoints for a Browning Hi-Power,” I said.
“What size is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Do you have the gun with you?” he said.
I pulled the gun out of my backpack and handed it to him.
“Don’t dry fire it,” I said.
Russell pointed the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. “This is a sweet gun. How much do you want for it?”
“We ain’t selling it,” said Lithium Jim.
“Well then I guess it’s free then,” said Russell, tucking it into his pants.
“For fuk it isn’t, give me back my gun,” I said. The push dagger in my sleeve was ready to jump into action.
“What are you doing with a gun like this? Gonna kill someone?” said Russell.
“Maybe,” I said. “We might rob a liquor store.”
Russell handed back the gun. “I was just kidding around. Let me know though if you want to sell it. I know someone that might want it.”
“Sure,” I said. I put the gun back into the backpack. “We gotta go.”
“What about the bullets?” said Alex.
“We don’t need them anymore,” I said. Lithium and I walked out the door.
“See ya pussies!” yelled Russell as we got on our bikes.
Lithium and I rode to the corner and then ditched our bikes.
“You go in through the back door,” I said, “and I’ll pick the lock on the side garage door.” We put on our camouflage ninja masks and moved toward Alex’s house. Lithium jumped over the fence and ran through the back yards. I crawled along the front yards until I was near the side gate. I whistled like a bird and hopped the fence.
Lithium was at the back corner of the yard. I worked on the lock and couldn’t get it open. I tried again with a snap pick. Nothing. I slid on the ground toward Lithium. We were gonna go for a back door assault.
Suddenly the side garage door opened and smoke came out. Russell stepped out and dumped water out of a tube into the bushes. It smelled like a skunk. Lithium’s eyes lit up. Marijuana! Lithium had smoked marijuana with some friend in his school. I had never tried the stuff, but I knew it was cool.
We waited until Russell went back in and then moved over to the side garage door. This time it was unlocked. I eased it open and slipped a mirror inside. I looked into the reflection. Russell was passed out on a couch. Alex wasn’t anywhere. Lithium tiptoed inside and I followed him. There was a bong on a table with an ashtray, a Hustler magazine and a bag full of herbs. Lithium grabbed the bag and ran for the door. I pulled out a ninja star and speared it into the magazine, right between some hot chick’s tits.
We ran to our bikes and booked out of there to our ninja tree house. Lithium Jim rolled a joint in some notebook paper and we hotboxed the tree house the rest of the afternoon.
Larry knew the minute he opened the window, he’d be caught. You’re not supposed to smoke weed at the Greasy Woodchuck Retirement Home. Well fuck. Larry’s weed was being bought by the state cause of his condition. The weed helped mellow him out and gave him the fucking munchees and he would go into the kitchen and shave a cat turd sandwich etc…
The first time Larry entered the Greasy Woodchuck, he knew it was the place for him. More than half the chicks were over seventy years old. Larry liked them young. He was in heaven. There were a fukload of social events. Everything from dances and picnics, to orgies and petting world. What he didn’t like though were the substance codes. Only blunts in the Jacuzzi, no gas huffing, roofies, or ludes, and no teabaging the fish pond.
Larry had been a bounty hunter all his life. And now it was time to settle down, sip some beer, eat some cafeteria food, and score some old beaver. He had been saving his whole career. Every time he got a paycheck it went straight to his habit. But the gorillas had been kind to him. In the summertime he would live in their cave, running around packing giraffes and anteaters.
Earl had become Larrys best friend at the Greasy Woodchuck. They would cruise the bingo halls trolling for trim. Earl had a fleet of Larks. He had a different Lark for every day of the week. He always had the newest Lark. Earl loved those fukin Larks. He fell in love with the handling. Though most didn’t have the acceleration in the high end. For that, he preferred a modified Rascal.
You’re probably not wondering why Larry got out of bounty hunting. He didn’t fully get out. He still worked freelance as a nark for senior homes. Bout as much action he could handle anyway these days. He had packed so much cabbage in his young days that his abdomen muscles are severely overdeveloped and he walks with a hunch back. It leans slightly to the left to counterbalance his Jensen. Or else the guy would walk in circles.
The courtyard was particularly smoky on the day it all went down. When the shit killed the fan. The damage those seniors did in one day was enough to shut the Greasy Woodchuck down for good. It was a good thing the ninjas didn’t catch Larry. He had done a few stupid things in his career. He single-handedly dismanteled the Krondorf cartel, he caught the Blarkfart Brothers. But the stupidest mistake he made was to arrest the third son of Hamdick Jinkins, master of the Tang Shredders Ninja Club.
For the last six months he had been on the run from ninjas. That’s why he changed his name to Larry in the first place. . . .
Larry had been born in spring ’47 under the name Harry “The Limp Dick” Sasquatch. He had a normal child hood. Well, as normal as any child born from a hydraulic anus.
Harrys mother and father had been a repo team until Harry was old enough to take up archery. He became an archery fanatic and he started winning tournaments all over the galaxy. He was sponsored by all the heavy players in the arrow sports. The sweepstakes in some of the tourneys was enough to keep his dad into hookers and blow for years. Mom got her robotic chicken hooked on blow.
Harry had a brother until his brother blew up in a grain dust explosion. A very noble man, Harry’s brother. The town had weeped for weeks. For weeks not a single thing had been done in Blutark. The cry of a thousand lonely brothels howled into the night sky. His brother had been their main source of income for the past twelve years.
Once Larry left his parents nest, he started doing repos all around the world. Re-posessing cars had been his life. It was a fast life, with fast cars, fast women, and hard drugs. LSD was his favorite. Larry did a fukload of LSD in his early twenties. He didn’t have any common sense. He was riding motorbikes in gorilla suits with his dick strapped to the tail light. Someone tailgated him and Larry/Harry couldn’t fart cause it would make him pee and now his pee forked in uncontrollable directions.
Harry remembered his first true love. Well he didn’t remember it very well anymore. Those years on LSD did a number on his long term memory. What they didn’t touch was his toupee selection. In the back of a van he repo’d was a crate of merkins and a sack of toupees. Harry put the toups in his locker before the inventory did their rounds. He was yanking his hair out the minute he laid eyes on them.
Harry used to go to the park with his toupee on. Walking the toupee he called it. A fine conversation starter it was. When the women ran up to pet it, he would grab their butts. That’s how he met his first true love.
Larry would break dance in the nude in front of the mirror every morning.
Then when he reached age thirty one, his Jensin stopped working. The turgor pressure went down to nothing overnight. And Larry bought his first hydraulics kit. He started hot rodding that sucker. Extended it another five inches. Tatoo’d flames down the side of it. The women went wild.
Flossie was her name. The first woman who liked him for who he was. They met by accident. Larry was testing beds all across the continent. Flossie was an educational video producer with a knack for documentary programming. The one on retirement homes was Larry’s favorite. So when they met in the flesh for the first time, Larry knew this one was special.
Flossie was twice his age. Larry found her irresistible. The way her bowling bags wobbled drove him out of his mind.
“All I can recommend is that you stop plowing those squirrels. Your dick is gonna fall off if you keep up this routine. It’s just a matter of when. Now if you’re still gonna fuck land mammals, despite everything we have talked about, then please wear protection. Next time you come in here with your ballsack clawed to bits will be the last time that I let you in this office.” Dr. Jum Tannis put away his stethoscope and pressed the intercom. “Darlene, I need a prescription for Ferd. Yes, the usual.”
Ferd jumped down from the examination table and put his shirt back on. “So level with me doc. You don’t want me fukin squirrels, marmots, badgers, otters, woodchucks, hamsters or voles? Well that still leaves mice, chipmunks, possum and tree frogs. I think I can live with that.”
“Good, cause there’s not much more we can do for you here. Even then, I would recommend a piece of pvc or garden hose as a rubber.” Said Dr. Jum Tannis.
“I saw something on the news about a stunt dick…”
“I would certainly not recommend a stunt dick at this time. The technology has a long way to go.”
“They said some of the celebrities are using them already and that they are getting great results.”
“Well that’s news to me. I talked personally to Dr. Houston myself, we’re old golf buddies. His company is the one that certifies all the new prosthetics with the FDA. He said there are still substantial risks involved with the latest stunt dicks. Though he does expect that they will be ready by this time next year.”
“Doc, I can’t wait till next year. I’m all alone up there. It gets so boring some times. If I can just plow something on a regular basis I will be happy.”
“What ever happened to Mable or Grezzy?”
“You know how women are. They want more to life than sex and farming turnips.”
“Maybe you haven’t found the right women. Have you tried a service or the internet?”
“You mean HOOKERS?” said Ferd, “Disgusting! That’s the last thing I need. Some crack whore breakin my bed apart.”
“I don’t know what to say Ferd. My next client is waiting, so I’m gonna have to get over there. Take care of yourself. We’ll see you in six weeks.”
Dr. Jum closed the door behind him. Ferd looked out the window at the squirrel running along the power line. He put his shoes on and walked to the check out desk.
“So we’ll see you in six weeks, ok?” said Jasmeal. She scribbled something on a card and gave it to Ferd. “Here’s your prescription. Have a fukin tits day.”
“Oh I will,” said Ferd, “I will indeed.” Ferd was talking but his mind was on that squirrel. He put on his raincoat and went to his truck. He unlocked the door and pulled out his climbing rope and grappling hook. The squirrel was still there calling for him, enticing him, teasing him. Ferd threw the hook over the top of the power pole and climbed up to the top. He sprayed essence of acorn on his crotch and crawled along the power line toward the trees.
When he reached the end of the power line, he reached his hand down into a big hole in the tree. There was a squirrel in there all right, Ferd could smell the squirrel piss from ten feet away. He fiddled around and pulled on a lever. The hole dialated and opened big enough so that he could walk in. There was a ladder and a large arrow pointing up. Ferd climbed up the ladder into the inside of the tree.
He was two stories up in the tree and he could hear a large grumbling noise. It sounded like squirrels fuking. Ferd started climbing faster. The ladder opened into a big hall. There was a squirrel orgy going on. Ferd whipped out his dick, put on his squirrel suit and started fukin squirrels.
Everything was going fine until one of the squirrels recognized Ferd. “Hey, that ain’t no squirrel, that’s a humanoid,” it said.
“No I am not!” said Ferd. “I am just a lonely squirrel like yourself. I just need a little good clean powerfukin. So everybody, lets just get back to our orgy.”
The squirrels kept on fukin and plowin and pakin and humpin. Ferd was about to bust a nut for the fourteenth time when he felt something shoot up his ass. He turned around and there was a giant squirrel giving him the cornhole patrol.
“I ain’t gay, dammit,” said Ferd, “get yer curly dick out of my fukin ass or I’ll turn around and knock your block off.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the giant squirrel, “you wouldn’t want to draw any unwanted attention. Not with three hundred angry squirrels after you.”
Then another giant squirrel walked in the door. “Well what do we have here?” said the second giant squirrel. “A little orgy, a little booze, good thing I brought the reefer. Hey Milt let me go a round on that squirrel.”
“This ain’t no squirrel, it’s a pesky human buttin’ his pecker in where it don’t belong. So I figured I’d teach him a thing about how us subspecies do the deed.”
“Well send him over to my room when you’re done with him. It’s been a long time since I drilled me one of them humans. Want to rip a doob?”
“Naw, I’m about to paste,” said the first giant squirrel.
Then he blasted a nut and Ferd blew up in a puff of wads.
“How’s that for a taste of your own medicine?” said the first giant squirrel.
“Ya gotta use that duct tape Milton, that’s what its there for,” said the second giant squirrel.
“Time to get stoned,” said the first giant squirrel.
They got stoned.
I get a lot of mail asking the same question; How does one become a weed junkie? It’s not easy but it is possible with a lot of hard weed smoking and some powerful determination. Anyfuk, here’s the advice that I give most people. First off, you’ve got to have time on your hands. While it’s possible to be a weed junkie and have a full time job and play on a sports team, those things can really cut into your weed smoking time. What I would recommend, since you’re probably not going to make your living smoking weed right away, is that you keep your day job, but try to get the hours reduced. Once your boss sees that you are serious about smoking weed, there’s a good chance that he will support your dedication and determination. In fact, I know of several cases where weed smokers have been laid off so that they can spend more time perfecting their smoking. And with unemployment paying roughly $300/minute, this can really help the amateur weed junkie.
Second, you have to have a large supply of high quality weed. One good option is to grow your own if you have a large unused area of fertile land. Don’t even think about hydroponics or growing in your basement unless you are technically inclined, or are sponsored by the electric company. The time and effort spent working in your grass garden can be better spent inhaling THC. A better idea is to make friends with your dealer. Once he sees that you are serious about your pot smoking, he is bound to give you a discount price. Just make sure he has the best grass in town because, and I know from experience, you can’t properly condition your mind and your lungs with crap weed. And if you are smoking seeds and rolling shake all the time, you won’t be fully prepared for the lung blasting exhaustion of the professional weed circuit.
Third, don’t mix your drugs. This may come as a shock to a lot of you, but professional weed smokers don’t smoke weed for fun. Sure, they love to smoke weed, but they treat it as their profession and that comes with the responsibilities of being a true professional. Sure, a couple crystals of DMT or a tab of LSD now and then isn’t gonna hurt in the long run. But a competitive weed smoker knows that they need those precious brain cells for weed. This isn’t the seventies anymore. The competition today isn’t a bunch of hippies rolling snowcones and getting their puff on. If you expect to even place in today’s Pan-Galactic Smokeout, you better spend your hard earned cash on smoking yer fukin weed. Also, some comps around the country do test for illegal substances. It’s not common, and I hope it’s not a growing trend, but I have heard of cases when smokers were removed from the competition for dropping acid on their rest days. Don’t let this happen to you.
Fourth, sponsorship. Unless you rank in the top two thousand smokers in the galaxy, you probably won’t make enough on sponsorship alone to support yourself. It’s definitely possible to get some form of local sponsorship when you are starting out and I would recommend that you look into this as soon as possible. The best thing to do is get as high as you can and then walk into the offices or store that your are thinking about and then talk to whoever is there. If you can’t talk to a person, talk to the walls, or even better yet talk to their products. Once people see that you are serious about your new profession, they will be a lot more likely to give you money. Some people have even had good success by channeling. I’ve never tried this, but several colleagues of mine swear by it. They will pick a business that they want to approach, then they will dress up in a one-piece leotard with that company’s logo embroidered on their back. Right after the establishment opens, they will ninja roll into the middle of the building/store/office and jump up and “channel” the gods. Often they start by speaking in tongues, something that has to be practiced, and then they will go into a memorized rant, inserting the company name where appropriate.
Fifth, training. A lot of people think a professional weed smoker just smokes weed. If only it were that easy. There are a lot of factors involved in becoming a world-class weed junkie. Its not always “who can smoke the most fukin weed?” Sure, those are usually the events that they show on TV, but true mastery in the grass inhaling arts involves so much more. For example in the bake and shake, how can you prevent yourself from shivering from massive THC overload? Training. That’s it. Not genetics, not will power. Good, old-fashioned training. How does one train for an event such as this? That is beyond the scope of this article. Volumes could be written about lung capacity, blood thickness, inhalation intervals, etc…
Sixth, brain damage. You want to smoke as much weed as possible, and who wouldn’t? How do you prevent yourself from turning into a complete vegetable? We’ve all seen the classic “stoner” who smoked five hundred too many bongloads before his/her mind was fully primed. Now he/she works in the tire-shredding factory and lives in an abandoned bread truck eating parsnips. Don’t be that person. Prepare your brain for drug abuse. If you’re gonna do drugs, other than weed, keep yourself on a strict schedule. I know, this is where you say I’ve gone too far. But hey, serious drug abuse is not for wimps. If you’re gonna huff video head cleaner. Keep it to three times a week maximum. When smoking cigarettes dipped in formaldehyde, please do so in a well-ventilated area. There are several other rules that I try to adhere to, but once again they are beyond the scope of this article.
In conclusion, I would like to conclude this article. Who knows, maybe some day you to will be a Weed Master! I would like to end with a quote from Gorbak 7. Many of you who have seen Beef Meat in action know that he is one of the most dedicated weed junkie on the planet. Let’s hope he wins the Pan-Galactic this year too.
“I gotta have my fukin’ weed”
– Beef Meat
No one wants to wake up to see their dad fucking the Easter Bunny. I was at Indian Scout camp and all the dads were staying up late pounding beer. I wiped my ass with a loaf of steel wool. I ran to the balcony and climbed onto the roof. I ran right and then backtracked and covered my steps. I jumped into the tree just before the bloodhounds ran by.
I silently snorted as much cocaine as I could. I was laying down rails on branches, dirt, rocks, anything that had a flat surface. I jumped on the motorcycle and then popped a fukin wheelee that would give the devil a boner.