Weedbug The Savior

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.
“Thanks again.”
“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.
BZZZZZZZZZP
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.”
“That’s impossible.”
“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.
RRRRRAAAAAAAWWWWWLK
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.”
“Atlatl?”
“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.
CHOOORKOW
“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.
“Horse.”
“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.
KRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOWZZARP
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.

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