The Dope

I recently scored a quarter pound and got a good price. Fuck that, the best price I’ve ever had on a QP. I’m sitting here trying to understand how I ever managed this on ten hours notice and all I can figure is that I must have had it coming. Who knows why? I could speculate on a number of reasons but most of them favour a reality in which wrath is rewarded with the choicest fruit and choices have no consequences. Oh sure, it’s an outdoor grow and the bottom of the bag was a lot of shakey-bake but the nipple tip buds are furrier than vintage gash. The fly little hottie who delivered it to my door even brought me a coffee and if she’s sporting any bush south of the equator it’s been pared down to a landing strip. She smelled good too - almost as good as the Dope.

Weighing it out into ounces by the quarter brought back a lot of old memories. No one ever took a short count off me - I sold fat baggies. Small bills and big profits. And yes, Friday nights would always see a motley queue of hooligans out my basement cell door - Fresh Fish Fridays. Some would take little nibbles and others took bigger bites while I weighed the scales. Weights, measures, justice and universal balance in the palm of my hand. Good times and good smoke. I had lots of cash and lived in relatively high style for a stoner monk. Busty house bunnies brought me take-out trays of prime rib and potatoes. As the Great God of Plenty I was the happiest camper in the Garden of Earthly Delights. Wake-n-bakes, plenty of sleep-overs and booze with every meal. Until the rats chased my fish away and started sapping at the foundation of my tidy little enterprise. In recall I can say that the Barbarians were encamped without the gates of my Rome - blocking the Apian Way of the basement stairs. Truth to tell, I was lucky to have gotten out with my skin.

Do I really want to start another back-pocket empire and deal with all of the shit that entails? Oh, the extra money would be nice and we could get the Cable in maybe if there was anything good on TV. Free smoke and cigarette money’s nothing to complain about but nosey pig calling neighbours I can do without (and a certain pus-arsed cock-jawed example of same remains to be squared away). There’s nothing wrong with getting ahead but a jump from wage slave to dirt merchant can land you in a lot more than a new tax bracket. You move from anonymity to wearing a sandwich board which reads along the lines of, I’m better off than you are…feel free to pick at my still twitching carcass. And I never lacked for the envious scavengers in those bygone days - carpet-crawling flunkies and dogs begging at table who turned to bite the hand providing. I guess it all depends on putting the word out and come what may.

Thing is that I also ran into an old customer last weekend who was visiting from being away at college. He greeted me warmly, asked if I was still burning the herb and if I could help him out. But the cupboards were bare at home and I was waiting on emergency relief like a starving Ethiopian for UNICEF pennies. Thing was that he also said the cupboards were bare back at the college and folks were getting hungry. That got me to thinking as I finished my grocery shopping - I sure would like to be the hand providing again. So maybe I made the decision last weekend and this auspicious quarter-pound is the seed for my future prosperity. Maybe I'm following a would-be bean counter's fateful suggestion down the wide and winding way to my own private hell.

Or maybe it`s all just the Dope talking.