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UNDERGROUND COLORS OF THE SPIRITED VIBE By Mikey Neides We found the body in the parking lot of our apartment complex. He was obviously a kung fu master who had been killed in a challenge match and the victors had dumped his body here. We took him inside and I checked his wallet. It said his name was Bill so I called him Mr. Bill. It was kind of strange. Me and girlfriend made love and Mr. Bill was there but everyone makes love with their girlfriend, right? I asked Mr. Bill if he wanted some pancakes for breakfast. He nodded in approval but he wasn’t very hungry. He was sitting in a chair at the dining table waiting for his next fight no doubt. Me and my girlfriend had been smoking heavy on this Southern Mexican sativa. I packed a blunt and we let it circulate around the room. Mr. Bill even took a drag. His lips curled around it with no saliva and he took a big hit. Our monkey Johannes didn’t smoke. He ate all his weed. I put some cannabis in the blender with carrot juice and Johannes drank it right up. He was a smart monkey and this herb made him do backflips on the coffee table. My girlfriend was cooking a quarter pound of the cannabis into oil on the stove, using a distiller I had rigged up according to the rules. No one had ever tasted it so we were looking forward to it. I asked her if I could move it onto the small burner in the back and she said that I could and that it was almost ready. The oil was the way to go in our opinion. Nothing hit like it and it was good for eating. Speaking of eating, I wanted the big burner in front to cook some organic canned cheese raviolis. I only bought organic animal products because I had a friend who was a farmer and he had sold me on the idea of no more factory farming and I called it torture cheese, the factory farmed dairy. We lived in the ghetto of East Los Angles in apartment #20 at the Prairie Village Apartments. Not that it mattered to us. We were fearless martial artists and no one could stop us. We were hip to ghetto affairs and were blinded by all the cash, drugs, and fast cars. I had a 1996 Monte Carlo that was pimped and we took it to the beach a lot. I don’t like driving and my girlfriend did, so she was the expert in the field. My pimp, Marcel Proust called me up and said he had a lady on the line who wanted to have sex with a kung fu master and that’s why he had called me specifically. I asked if he should be a championship kung fu master, smiling at Mr. Bill. He said he should have won some trophies. I told Marcel that it was my job and not to let anyone else attempt such a feat. I got in the ’96. I had spilled some grape juice on my shirt but I would tell the lady it was blood from my challenge match. When I got there, she said, Oh you poor thing! You must need sex immediately. I told her sex was the last thing on my mind. I asked if she could give me a deep massage. She obliged but then tried to push me. I negated it and told her I couldn’t be pushed even a little bit. Insulin she said I was. I produced my short hardwood stick and started mixing up some form on the spot. She agreed that my kung fu was pretty good and that I should return later when I was more in the mood. She gave me the three hundred dollars and I split back to the pad. I called Marcel and asked him if he had been paid. He said he already had and not to ever worry about a question like that. My girlfriend asked me, Why don’t you use some of those kung fu moves on me? She knew she could never be my only one. It disgusted me how some people thought they could own someone. It was like sex slavery, in a relationship manner. I called up Stewie, our neighbor with the cocaine connection who sold cocaine. I asked him if he could bring an ounce. He arrived and gave the secret knock so I knew it was him. I told him I was tied up financially and could he front me the ounce? I always came through so the Stew was glad to give me the ozer. I put it in a pot with some baking soda and water and started cooking it down into crack. Stewie was always a warm presence. He liked smoking herb with us and used cocaine occasionally. You’re not supposed to do it every day he told us. I rolled up a blunt packed with a secret mixture of legal herbs. I included the telapathine and some stimulants just for Stewie and rolled it extra tight. I said that this shit makes you telepathic and left it at that. We put on some rap music and this guy was rapping about how cold the world was. We agreed and I sparked the blunt. Immediately, the music turned into waves of colors. I called them the Underground Colors of the Spirited Vibe. Stewie shook his head in amazement and related that he always was in awe of my abilities. I shrugged my shoulders and told him it was from years of practice. I had trained our monkey Johannes how to sell crack on the corner. He was pretty good. We finally got him to stop eating the rocks. I told him, no! You’re only supposed to do that if you’re going to get busted. He couldn’t understand a word I was saying but I think he just got tired of eating the rocks. We had streamlined him into an ultraefficient salesman of crack cocaine. I had been investing in stocks. Especially the microbrewery. I knew that one would be a big hit. I had some dogs but overall I did a good job and prospered. I had my fingers in all sorts of pies. We had good music and herbs and nothing could have been more splendid. I was rambling on and asked my girlfriend if she could hear what I was saying in my head, in her head. She said she could and chalked it up to the telapathine. The oil was done. She cooked it in a frying pan to flash off the remaining water and I put some in a glass oil pipe and torched it. That stuff was some sweet magic. Nothing came close to the hash oil and we all knew it. My girlfriend liked to add a little finely powdered cellulose so it would be solid at room temperature. This makes it much easier to handle, as the oil is very messy. I consider myself a shaman and yet, was deficient in sativa cannabis. We were trying to smoke as much as possible so that we could get the heady vibe. I told my girlfriend that I paid twenty pucks for this oil pipe and that I could have blown one out in five minutes with 50 cents worth of glass and gas. The music was making Stew paranoid. He thought the rappers were talking about shooting him. I told him rappers were always talking about shooting people and not to worry about anyone specifically. The cops had been rolling by a lot. Stew asked if we noticed that the cops were rolling by a lot? He was going because I had just parted the curtains to look outside and observe the traffic. Johannes had his own spot and no one would dare fuck with an armed kung fu master like myself, so I gave it no worries. I pulled out the shotgun and cocked it. This is the most dangerous weapon, I told everyone. I explained to Mr. Bill how back in the day people would threaten you with the shotgun and we all tried our hands at graffiti art in hopes of getting all the girls. Mr. Bill understood, he told me, and Stewie added that they had nuclear weapons pointed at our country. They act like a bunch of little kids, my girlfriend stated bluntly. I laughed and said this shotgun was for kids. I had no intention of using it. Stewie split and the crack was done cooking. Johannes was by the coffee table and I took out the crack platter. I started chopping up rocks with my girlfriend. I didn’t smoke crack any more or use any cocaine. I sold it for the righteous cause. I used to hype for a 50 piece, but my girlfriend told me I would keel over and die from it one day. Crack has it’s good and bad side and many people enjoyed. Plus it was good money. The cops rolled by a few more times. Then there was silence. This is the sweet spot, I said, and sent out Johannes with the crack to sell. We were always concerned about him but he seemed fearless and never worried. An hour later he came back and threw wads of cash on the table. That’s when I knew we had a soldier on our hands in Johannes. We didn’t sell any heroin and there were many drugs we wouldn’t touch. We only sold drugs that strengthened the state of the nation. I decided to take an inventory of the drug stockpile. We had about half a pound of cannabis and some oil. There was a quarter sheet of blotter LSD and we had over 150 legal herbs. Legal herbs are challenging to study. No one teaches you how to use them. You have to use trial and error strategy and hope you don’t fuck it up. It was the Summer of 2016. It could be a summer of love. None of us were quite sure what to make of it. It was smoggy of course in East Los Angeles. That was a given. Me and my girlfriend had discussed the end of smoking herbs. We smoked a lot and our lungs were fucked. I went up to Johannes and gave a deep breath, puffing up my lungs. He returned with his own version and I added that yeah, that’s why Johannes doesn’t smoke. We had to keep a low profile. My girlfriend had once asked me what was I doing smoking in a nonsmoking apartment? I told her I had the rules changed to accommodate my shamanism. That’s why we smoked, I decided. All shamans have to smoke. My girlfriend said we needed some indica. Indica is the sledgehammer of cannabis. It generally knocks you right out. I brought up that we needed some indica. She said that I needed some and that she had told me before that we just wouldn’t be the same without indica. I suggested a trip to the beach and we could think about it. We hopped in the Monte Carlo and had eaten some of the oil. We also had a blunt packed with sedating herbs to smoke when we peaked on the oil. We could make it to the beach before the cannabis kicked in, so we wouldn’t have any difficulty driving. Cannabis is different chemically when you eat it. When it gets to the brain, it’s different. Much more psychedelic. We hit our favorite spot at the beach. The sativa herb was fantastic when eaten. Sativa generally isn’t as resinous as indica so it’s rarely refined like indica, and when you get oil, you are getting something special for sure. There were no kids at the beach and I was making special impressions in the sand hoping that someone would see them later and realize my magic. Yes, I was getting quite high. The motion of the ocean was next. The water was warm this year and we bodysurfed for hours before hitting the blunt in the car. We didn’t care if anyone smelled the smoke. The herbs were legal and we didn’t have any illegal drugs on us. The cops wouldn’t be able to tell if we were stoned. That’s how expert we were. We headed home with the feelings of the waves for the rest of the day. I brought up again how cheap and fast I could make an oil pipe. My girlfriend said I was deranged from years of glassblowing and smoking and practicing kung fu. I was showing her a knife pattern. It was difficult and it took her a few times to understand the deep meaning. My girlfriend had practiced karate as a child and she had been with me for a few years. I started teaching her the ways of weapons and empty hands. I disagreed that I was deranged. She knew about my level of skill. Hardly anyone had achieved it. I thought about taking it into the cage fighting but so had everyone else like me. All my favorite techniques were illegal in there. The money was tempting but I just couldn’t see myself watering down my kung fu to fight in a cage for any amount of money. I told her we could quit the life with a glassblowing career. We would have to move and practice for six months before we started making any money. I had always wanted to open up my own head shop and that could also be a reality. I explained that the gypsies took a ten dollar pipe and sold it for thirty! If we sold for thirty, we could make more than a doctor with a small clinic makes, each. The whole world was like that and we discussed how we couldn’t believe that they still had the ghetto in 2016. My girlfriend wanted to hop off the track and take some LSD. The blotters were very strong and even one would far surpass the recreational dose. She cut one in half and we each took a half. We estimated that the blotters were 500 mcg strength. I asked her if she wanted some fake ecstasy from the LSD dealer. Everyone who tried it says it isn’t real MDMA. My girlfriend had only tried nutmeg from the herb stash and nutmeg isn’t entirely pleasant, with many adverse side effects. In fact, I had tossed the nutmeg stash in the garbage. I only bought it for my girlfriend, who had never tried MDMA. We need some real Molly, I said, which is white powder ecstasy. We had no clue where to get Molly, and agreed that it wasn’t the most important thing in the whole world. I showed my girlfriend some patterns with the machete and told her to be careful. Suddenly, there was a non-secret knock at the door. It was a pizza delivery man. Vegan pizza. My girlfriend said we had to try it. I opened the door and the stench of many herbs escaped to quickly reach and flare the nostrils of the delivery guy. He smiled and I gave him a generous tip. I decided the pizza tasted like shit. I had some good soy cheese in these burritos I used to buy almost thirty years ago at the chic health food store they used to run there. My girlfriend reminded me about my regular sermon about torture cheese and that there was no chance the soybeans had been tortured. I added that they should use hempseed. It’s much tastier. I used to buy bags of Chinese hemp seeds from the hemp booth on the Venice Beach boardwalk. Those were good. The Stewie man came by and I gave him $1500 for the ounce of cocaine. He was happy and asked what that smell was. Mr. Bill was starting to smell. I had been spraying him down with Lysol to preserve his outward appearance. It worked all right but Mr. Bill wouldn’t be around forever, as sad as that was. I asked Stewy, Hey Stew, how do you feel about glass pipes? He said he had never used one. Not even to smoke weed? I asked. Nope he said. I explained how I wanted to start a head shop and make pipes again and about the cost of glass and the ginormous profits to be had. Plus, it’s legal. I told him he could be producing quality in six months. It hit him that he could quit the life. He knew I was selling crack. He asked if he could try some. I got out the crack platter and measured out about ten dollars of shavings and put it in the oil pipe. I lit the torch and Stewie drew the smoke in one hit. He had a gun and he was no punk. A smalltime dealer and veteran cocaine user, he didn’t even talk through the massive crack rush that hit him. I told him that he lived in the ghetto to inspire fear in his customers. I explained how I was once held up at gunpoint in front of a cocaine dealer’s house. They were waiting for someone to come in with loads of cash for the big score and jack them. Stew said he had a select clientele and that only a greedy amateur would have such a thing happen. He had seen me practice some kung fu before. He said I was really on to something there. I agreed and showed him some basic punches and footwork. I told him to practice and think about maybe blowing glass with us. I told him we weren’t set on the idea but that it had been considered thus far with no major hurdles foreseen. I told Stewie we were going to cut back on our smoking and that he should try some of this ginseng. I mixed my best red Panax ginseng with some OJ and gave it to him. He said it tasted like vomit. I told him that drinking powdered herbs was called drinking yak in rap and that it was very popular. Now borderline paranoid, I told him that we had some LSD and that was the biggest bust there was in the apartment. He told me that even the cocaine vets get paranoid. He thought maybe it was from smoking it, but then he realized that it happens. He assured me that he would keep practicing the self defense skills I had shown him and he bumped fists with Johannes before leaving to feel the effects of the drugs solo. Johannes was out on the block a few more times before he came back one day with a dazed, fatigued look. He was overworked and needed a vacation. We were always on vacation and didn’t need to worry about anything. In fact, we were so mellow, we were probably the most mellow drug dealers on planet Earth. An armed kung fu master. A chic, intelligent lady, and a chic, intelligent monkey, and Mr. Bill. Mr. Bill was really the glue that held us together. Without him, we would be scattered and hopeless. A lone master and his girl plus a monkey. Mr. Bill made us feel glamorous and there was no doubt you trained 100% with him around. You could tell by the way he died that he had given it his all, yes, and we loved him for his bravery and understanding of our situation. My pimp Marcel Proust gave me a ring. He told me that the lady thought she could defeat my kung fu. That crazy bitch is going to use a gun I exclaimed! Don’t let anyone take a dangerous job like that. Being a prostitute was wearing and it fucked with your head. I was thinking of going straight with glassblowing. The landlord came by with a notice not to let your dog shit without picking up the mess. He smelled the herbs. I told him it was incense. He was known as Drum on the Dead Tour and I was Sunshine. I had spent many years on the Dead Lot in Santa Cruz, CA. He really didn’t care, and even complemented us on the fine aroma of our incense. The Grateful Dead helped give me the idea to take psychedelic drugs in the first place. The LSD was coming on, but I knew right then that it would take the heavy guns to solve the problem. I spoke with my girlfriend and we agreed that a serious mushroom trip was in order. Nothing fancy, the simple mushroom totally lays you out. A similar dose of LSD just burns your soul like snakes are raping it. We decided to buy another sheet of LSD and get a pound of mushrooms from the dealer. He was a wholesale dealer and the price was cheap, but you had t o buy a pound, which is about a lifetime supply for one person. We would also procure some fine indica and see if they had more sativa. I had told the dealer to be on the lookout for fine sativa and that we would buy a pound if he had it. Stew came back really excited. He told me we were badass and that he been practicing but had forgotten a little. I told him it was normal. He told me he invented this palm strike. I told him that ginseng is famous for opening up the palms. I suggested some Astragalus and a few others and mixed up some yak in fresh carrot juice. It occurred to me that Stew could become a professional head with some good herbs. We gave him a few hits of the sativa oil and he said he hadn’t tasted anything like that in years. Some fine stuff, very rare indeed. You want some herbs? Try some of this cold medicine. I explained that all we really need is cannabis and legal herbs. There is enough variety to keep you interested for an indefinite period of time. Stewy said he wanted a big shipment of herbs sent right to his door. He bought some cannabis herb from us and gave me $500 for legal herbs, telling me to get the good stuff. I knew that he had never tried mushrooms before and offered to give him a few trips worth when I scored. I had the idea of turning him onto more after he sampled the awesome effects of the shrooms. I could tell by the way Stew laid the money on the table that he was serious. We were serious also. I got my backpack and rounded up the cash to go score. I hit the mushroom dealer. He asked me what happened to your hair? I told him it was too long for ghetto situations. He made a rasp laugh and said, Oh! You live in the ghetto. He told me he liked to take a light trip these days and then listen to the Beatles when he came down. I thanked him profusely and said good vibes and that I was heading to score some cannabis. When I hit the cannabis dealer, the stench hit me. Strong skunk indica. I told him we were after some indica and that we would need more sativa. He told me he had a pound of the sativa left if I wanted it. Most people only bought a quarter pound he told me. I laughed and explained that maybe we would treat him to some oil next time or that he could visit any time, just to call first. He said he hadn’t thought about oil, and I explained that it’s a just a larger amount hitting you at once. Makes sense, he said. We both agreed that they should legalize this shit. Little did he know I had a pound of shrooms in the Monte Carlo ’96. I put a pound of sativa and a pound of indica in my backpack and split back to the car, thanking him for helping out with the righteous cause. I told him to thank the smuggler. Peace. When I hopped in the ’96 I turned on the radio. It was an unknown rapper rapping about smoking weed. Excellent! Many a fine head was made with the ganja. I was careful to obey all the traffic laws and was sober. I had a big bust in the car. They’d peg me as a dealer. Now a serious mushroom trip is serious. It can get loud and physical. It’s good to have space to move around and be heard by the birds and other creatures of nature. I decided on a spot in the hills in the rich neighborhood. There was no place to park nearby so we’d take the bus and hit up the spot. I used to take LSD trips there back in the day. That was the first place I really fried on acid. As long as we don’t set the hill on fire no one will care. There’s a nice stand of bamboo so we can relax in the shade and maybe smoke a blunt of this indica we scored. We weighed out two 3.5 gram sacks of shrooms and rolled a few blunts just in case. We hopped the Santa Monica bus and transferred at the route through the hills. We passed through some of the most gang infested areas known to man. I said that man, these Mexicans have mushrooms in their blood! They need the mushrooms more than we do! My girlfriend said that everyone has it in them but do they have what it takes? Anyway, after all the flak, we transferred up to the North into the foothills before the mountain range. Maybe one day we can go camping in the mountains and trip. We made our way past the creek. I showed my girl some rare desert plants that only grow by the oasis of a small creek like this one. Absolutely beautiful. There was wild sage and various semi-desert scrub that grows in Los Angeles. Finally we made it to my spot. A rattlesnake was there. We were calm. The snake rattled it’s tail a bit. Neither of us were threatening. The snake knew we were too large to eat and sped away like a bullet. Aren’t snakes incredible. I was familiar with the area and explained that there were important microwave towers on the top of the hills and that black helicopters protected them against terrorist attack so no one’s cellphone would drop out. It was getting dark so we sparked up a blunt and munched our shrooms. We had sleeping bags and looked like campers, with our backpacks and all. I showed my girlfriend how to wrap a sweater around your head so that no rodents could bite you while you were sleeping. It had been about an hour and I could feel the ringing vibration that precedes a mushroom trip. My girl said that these mushrooms knock your socks off. I thought that that would be a great name for a headshop: Knock Your Socks Off. I showed my girlfriend the stands of wild tobacco. I call it ritual tobacco. It’s called rustica and has psychoactive properties. She was familiar with it and had smoked it with me many times. I wait ‘till it naturally cures to a brown color and can be harvested without further drying or curing. It’s good in a blunt and the Queen of England decided that only the tobacco that doesn’t get you high should be sold. You definitely wouldn’t want to drive a car after you smoke the rustica. We had to face that the trip was coming on. I was starting to feel my appendages turn into lizard claws. My girlfriend was a little lightweight to be tripping with but I made the exception due to her strenuous practice of the martial arts. You could probably kick my ass right now, I told her. She laughed and said that was wrong and that I’d always be better. When you move, you are so smooth and perfect. You do this weird thing that I just can’t seem to get no matter how many times you show me. I told her that with many years of practice she could get to the point where she could defeat all comers. It was getting dark and the trip hit. Multidimensional spiraling in the head like an insect wiggles on the ground. Oh Shit! That’s insects wiggling on the ground. The only time you get visuals on mushrooms is when people are around. My girlfriend explained that she was getting visuals. I told her it was probably coyotes in the distance. I said that I sure as hell hope that Mexicans killed all the mountain lions around here. I once saw a mountain lion up close. It smiled at me and raised it’s right paw, then turned around and walked away. People get torn up and eaten all the time by coyotes in the wilderness. They just get listed as missing. This trip is nothing for me, also, I had to say. I’ve taken the half ounce so these eighth trips are almost like nothing. Maybe one day in the mountains we can double you to seven grams! That’s a good trip. You really start to fall apart. You have ego loss, they call it. Real professionals never make the mistake of underestimating the trip. A thick feeling came on. I could feel all my chakras. My legs felt totally anchored to the ground like I had been training five hours a day. Nothing could stop us now. We were there at that moment. The peak. Up the peak, down real slow. No one will know. A black helicopter could be heard in the distance! Oh snap! It’s coming this way. Lay on your side with your arms and legs outstretched so you look like a coyote on infrared. The helicopter buzzed us and passed right over. They check this spot a lot I said, because it’s a good gathering area for terrorists ready to attack. We agreed that there’s nothing funny about terrorists. What about Stewie, we wondered. Surely we couldn’t deal with him and glass if he was selling cocaine. He’ll probably never stop using that shit unless we turn him on to better things, like these mushrooms for instance. Some cold medicine and lots of ganja is good. I knew he would dig martial arts. There’s nothing else like it in the world. My mind was scattering and falling apart. Full blown trip! We decided to spark the second blunt to get rasta high. The indica immediately made it’s way through the system and made the trip into a burning type trip. Eating cannabis and tripping is also lots of fun. I once ate too much cannabis on a trip and the clouds turned into burning dragons, coiling in the sky. My girlfriend made sure that we would buy another sheet of LSD. It’s cheap, she said and we seem to get a lot out of it together. She was more experienced with LSD than I was. She grew up with it, and I hit the mushrooms first. LSD actually isn’t some crazy chemical, it’s just a natural serotonin-type compound found in a fungus that the chemist modifies slightly. It’s perfect for your brain, she thought and I could hear her. Years of using telapathine together made us think almost as one, with a little bit of help from various kung fu training exercises designed to increase sensitivity. We were getting the inkling that we were too doped out. We had been spinning on drugs for years now with no break. We seemed to agree that we should quit smoking for awhile. Sobering up for a few weeks sounded like a good idea. Some of the herbs we were using were really hardcore. We felt like hard drug addicts after a serious binge. Yes, we needed to evaluate our drug habits and alter them to accommodate for the future of us and our plan to make it happen. My girlfriend was getting sold on the idea of producing glass smoke ware. We had a neighbor who made knots. He made some really awesome keychains and various odds and ends by tying rope into knots. They would be a big seller at our headshop, we thought. There was really nothing to it: Make a good product and make a good profit. Bringing Stew in on the deal seemed like the best idea. With him, we’d have more of a team effort. We thought Johannes could run wild in the shop while we were getting him stoned. He could quit selling crack and we could quit selling crack. We were doing it for the money and the righteous cause, but the world would prosper without us. It was only a matter of time before the whole world turned on. The next morning we were hungry. I said that there was an Armenian store nearby that had great canned dolmathes in olive oil. We headed that way but the store had gone out of business. I knew there was a great Mexican joint down the road but that they used the torture cheese. My girlfriend suggested that we hit the health food store. We were still ringing from the mushrooms as we picked out some gourmet wraps and organic peaches for desert. We grubbed while we were waiting for the bus. Everyone wondered where we were camping I’m sure, because we were far from the official campsites in the mountains and there was no legal place to camp in the area. Fuck ‘em we thought. We hopped the bus and sat up front. The bus driver recognized me. He told me his name was Al. I said, you remember me from when I used to live here! He said that he used to see me walking down the main road all the time. We decided to switch up the ghetto scene and change routes in Downtown Los Angeles. I said peace to the driver and thanked him for the ride. Let’s stay the hell away from skid row my girlfriend suggested and I gave it a solid no doubt. We had to ask where the Santa Monica bus was but it ran often so we didn’t need to wait so long in the high crime section of Downtown. We made it onto the bus and it was not too crowded so we didn’t need worry about the Mexican gang factor as much. Finally we passed the auto parts store and hit sweet freedom. We quickly got inside and locked the door, giving Johannes some cannabis oil mixed with coconut milk. Like the ghetto? East LA wasn’t so bad as that mess. I had been to “the jungle” in South Central Los Angeles where no one is ever out on the street. It’s that dangerous, and looks like a ghost town covered with graffiti. We were lucky and knew that we could always up and move. I had a lot of money that I had cleaned up in the stock market. A headshop and glass shop in a nice neighborhood sounded like a good idea. Stewy came by with the secret knock. I told him about our plan and how we’d really like to have him on board with us for the score of the lifetime. How big of a score is that, he said, when we out and said we really could use his help. It’s hard to find real heads and the ones you do find you want to be friends with forever. We were about to offer him some oil to eat when he said that he was just chillin’. We told him we were sobering up for a few weeks and really needed the break. Let’s have a beer party! My girlfriend exclaimed let’s have a beer party! We can invite all our close friends. We can also invite the manager Drum. I’m sure everyone would love to hang out with us and we can roll up the last few blunts of ritual tobacco to throw everyone for a loop. I thought it was a great idea. Not only would the party be good for the soul, it would be a chance to lighten up and just party, after all the peeking out of drawn curtains to look for cops and crack cocaine and shit. We made up the list of people to call and scheduled it for a Sunday. Scoring brew is easy. We went to the market and found “endless summer ale” and “India pale ale.” Those seem like the best choices. Excellent. That Sunday came and we had just over a dozen guests. My friend Chuck told me he was hooked on heroin. We both knew what that meant. I told everyone that this was a drug free zone for the party and not to let the manager Drum know you were using any drugs. Chuck started crying on me. I’m just a worthless fucking junkie, he said. I explained to him that we were quitting some hard stuff too and if he had ever tried any mushrooms? He said he hadn’t so I weighed out a quarter ounce and slipped them in his pocket. I told him that was two strong trips and not to trip if he was withdrawing from the smack and ill. It’s good for thinking, I told him and he said that he understood what I meant. Drum arrived and we started drinking. Alcohol is a crude buzz and I hadn’t drank in years. It got to me and I started babbling about the price of glass and commercial space. Drum was interested. A lot of the guests said they’d much rather be smoking pot than drinking. I brought up how alcohol had led to this discussion and Drum said that he had been on The Dead tour and had used lots of LSD and mescaline and some other drugs. Stewy came by and I could tell he had just snorted a huge line of cocaine. He asked if I could turn on the air conditioner? I told him it wasn’t that hot and that he was far out. He said, It’s this party, isn’t it? We agreed and he managed to sit and think while sipping a brew. I called up the radio station and told them that we pimped out the station with stickers and T-shirts. The DJ recognized me and I asked if she could play Hayloft by Mother Mother. Everyone was hit by the hardcore riff that the song featured. Music makes the people come together. We put on some AC/DC and cranked it. Drum said it was OK and if anyone complained he’d just say that he told us to turn it up! I laughed and selected some good music like Green River by Credence Clearwater Revival. Me and Drum got into a heated debate about wether Jerry’s soul was destroyed by heroin. Chuck said that’s definitely what happened. He had all that money and didn’t realize what he had done until it was too late. I told Drum and everyone that I had something special here. Drum was freaking and thought I was about to pull out a joint! I produced the last two blunts of ritual tobacco. I explained how this was sacred and that I had gathered it myself in the hills. Drum thought the idea of psychoactive tobacco was cool and took a deep drag before passing it around in the crowd. Mr. Bill had some sunglasses on. Drum wondered why he wasn’t drinking and I told him that he was a Chinese Muslim and was fasting for the time. He understood that Chinese Muslims were persecuted by the government in China and left Mr. Bill alone. Drum hadn’t hit enough of the ganja to really understand the trip. I think he really liked barbituates. He was still a cool guy but he needed more herb in his life. People underestimate the cannabis but it is very important. After the party Stew helped us clean up the mess. We decided to take Mr. Bill out that night. We put his body back where we found it and called the police. My girlfriend handled them, saying that she was shocked and that we’d like to attend the funeral, because we cared about the neighborhood There would no doubt be many high level masters at the funeral.
Quote: We found the body in the parking lot of our apartment complex. He was obviously a kung fu master who had been killed in a challenge match and the victors had dumped his body here. We took him inside and I checked his wallet. It said his name was Bill so I called him Mr. Bill.
Obviously a kung fu master and killed in a challenge match. How exactly was that obvious from a dead body?
Quote: I asked Mr. Bill if he wanted some pancakes for breakfast. He nodded in approval but he wasn’t very hungry. He was sitting in a chair at the dining table waiting for his next fight no doubt.
So when exactly did zombie boy Bill come back to life?
Yeah yeah yeah I know he wasn't dead you were insinuating that he got his ass kicked but you made him sound dead. Then I peeked a little further up in the story and saw something about a monkey drinking carrot juice and weed then I actually felt my self getting stupider as I read more so I stopped there.
-------------------- All creatures tremble when faced with violence. All creatures fear death, all love life. If we can only see ourselves in others, then how could we possibly hurt another creature?