Hairy opened his eyes, and saw that Hogride was expertly maneouvering the motorcycle through crowded city streets. In fifteen years, Hairy had never been more than a few blocks from the Straitely's home, so pretty much everything seemed unfamiliar to him. Hairy looked down and saw that Headstash, his scraggly pot plant, was still safe in its teacup between his feet.

"How long was I sleeping?" asked Hairy, shouting the question to be heard over the wind and engine.

"Oy, yeh startled me!" shouted back Hogride, glancing at the thin teenager. "Yeh had a nice, long nap, it's been a few hours since yeh passed out. Can't say as I blames yeh, as yeh got yerself pretty stoned!"

Hairy didn't know what Hogride meant, he couldn't remember rocks of any sort. He did remember having two sensational puffs off of the Hogride-rolled cigarette, but things got a bit fuzzy after that.

Hairy asked a different question.

"Where are we going?"

"We've got ta get yeh yer Hempwards school kit. Books 'n bongs 'n stuff," hollered back Hogride, guiding the bike around a sharp corner. "'ang on, I've got summat for yeh 'ere." The huge biker let go of one handlebar and started reaching into coat pockets as if looking for something. Then he wasn't holding onto the handlebars at all, instead patting down his leather coat and frantically digging both hands into all of his countless pockets. "Oy, 'ere it is," he said, pulling out a crumpled bit of paper and passing it to Hairy.

Hairy waited until Hogride had both hands safely back on the handlebars before unfolding the paper. He held it tightly in both hands to protect it from the whipping winds, and read:

HEMPWARDS SCHOOL OF HERBCRAFT AND WEEDERY
UNIFORM

First year students will require:

1) Three sets pure hemp clothes in school colors
2) One plain hemp fanny pack
3) One pair mirrored sunglasses
4) One hempsilk headband (colors and designs optional)
Please note that all students' clothes should have name tags.

SET BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

Hashish!, by Robert Connell Clarke
Marijuana Medicine, by Christian Ratsch
The Great Book of Hemp, by Rowan Robinson
The Emperor Wears No Clothes, by Jack Herer
Green Gold: The Tree of Life, by Chris Bennet
The Marijuana Grower's Handbook, by Ed Rosenthal
The Best of Cannabis Culture Magazine (Vol. I & II)
Marijuana, The First Twelve Thousand Years, by Ernest L. Abel

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 personal glass bong
1 small stone pipe
1 refillable butane lighter
3 packs pure hemp rolling papers (regular)
1 set brass scales
1 herb grinder (plastic, wooden or metal)
1 stash tin

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT PERMITTED THEIR OWN VAPORIZERS.

"Can we buy all this in town?" asked Hairy.

"If yeh know where ta look," replied Hogride, bringing the motorcycle to a sudden halt. "This is it." Hogride killed the engine and stepped off the bike.

Hairy looked around. He saw a bookstore, a record shop, a motorcycle repair garage, a gardening store and a cafe. He saw regular people, men in suits, women in dresses, young couples holding hands, families going out to see a show. This was just an ordinary street with ordinary people. Was there really a secret cabal of pot-smoking crazies around here somewhere?

"Bring yer li'l plant wit' yeh," said Hogride, "we can get it repotted while we're at it."

"Where are we?" asked Hairy as he clambered out of the sidecar and retrieved his precious Headstash.

"A very famous place," said Hogride, striding forward and patting down his jacket, beginning another search for something in one of his many pockets. "It's called The Pot Block. Yeh'll need to do some shoppin', but we gotta get yer money first."

"I haven't got any money," said Hairy, worried.

"Don't worry about that," said Hogride. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh nothin'?"

"But if their house was burned down -"

"They didn't keep their wealth in the house, boy! Nah, first stop for us is Greengold's, tha Weedster's bank."

"Weedsteers have banks?"

"Jus' the one. Greengolds. Run by Angels. They have their own currency."

"Angels?" asked Hairy, astonished.

"Well, sor' of. So yeh'd be mad ta try an' rob it. Greengold's is tha safest place fer anythin' yeh wan' to keep safe - 'cept maybe Hempwards."

They had reached the motorcycle shop, and Hairy saw a big sign saying "Route 81". It was a spacious garage, with motorcycles everywhere in various states of disassembly. Large, muscular men wearing oily coveralls were working on the bikes, and one walked over to greet them, wiping his huge hands on a rag.

"Oy! 'ello Rudy!" said the man, who was a match for Hogride in both size and accent. "It's fabulous ta see ya!" He gripped Hogride's hand tightly and slapped his arm. "An' who's this then? Holy smoke! Is this - can this be - ?"

Route 81 had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

"By the leaf and the flower," whispered the huge motorcyclist, taking Hairy's small hand and holding it earnestly. "Hairy Pothead, what an honor."

Hairy didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. Hogride was beaming. Then all the other mechanics came over and Hairy had to put down Headstash so he could shake hands with everyone there.

"Crankshaft, Helmut Crankshaft, Mr Pothead. I can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So pleased Mr Pothead, so pleased to meet you."

"Fucking hey! It's fucking awesome to shake your hand, man!"

Hairy shook hands again and again. His hands were soon covered with motorcycle oil and grease. Eventually Hogride was forced to interrupt.

"Jerry, sorry ta intrude, we've gotta get to tha bank, we're on a tight schedule. We've got a bus ta catch."

"Alright then. Yeh know where ta go."

Hairy picked up his fragile plant, and let Hogride guide him through the throng of mechanics, into the back of the garage. They went down a short hallway decorated with posters of girls in bikinis posing with shiny bikes, through a few more doors and corridors, and then far down a long stairwell. At the bottom of the stairs was pair of narrow doors which had been spray painted silver, with the words "We don't call 9-1-1" scrawled across both of them, along with the image of a hand pointing a gun at the viewer.

Sitting on a stool next to the doors was a massive man, bigger even than Hogride. Hairy could also see a small video camera pointing down at them from above the doors. He felt nervous, but the man smiled at them and gave a thumbs up to the camera, and then the doors swung open.

They went through the silver doors and into a large marble chamber. About a dozen beefy bikers wearing leather vests were sitting on high stools behind a long counter. They scribbled in large ledgers, weighing fat bags of marijuana on digital scales and examining chunks of hash through eyeglasses. Hogride and Hairy made for the counter.

"Mornin'," said Hogride to a free clerk. "We've come ta make a withdrawl from tha Pothead's family box."

"You have the key, man?"

"Got it 'ere somewhere," said Hogride, and he started emptying his pockets on the counter, scattering a handful of roaches over the ledger book. Hairy watched the biker at their right weighing a chunk of hash as big as his fist.

"Got it," said Hogride at last, holding up a tiny silver key.

The biker-clerk looked at it closely.

"That seems to be ok, man."

"Oy, I've also got a letter 'ere from Professor Duinthadope," said Hogride importantly. "It's about tha Whatchamacallit in his box. I've got his key as well."

The biker read the letter carefully.

"All righty, man. Let's go back to the boxes. Goodwinch!"

Goodwinch was another biker. Once Hogride had crammed the roches back into his pockets, he and Hairy followed Goodwinch towards another door leading out of the chamber.

Together, the entered a long narrow room with locked safety deposit boxes filling one wall, and a counter going along the other. The biker took Hairy's key and slipped it into a box, then matched it with a key from a huge set which he pulled from his pocket. He opened the small door and slid out a long, narrow box, which he placed upon the counter for Hairy.

While the biker took the key for Duinthadope's box from Hogride, Hairy opened his box and peered inside. It contained many small jars, filled with sparkling brown powders, each labelled with strange names and numbers. There was also several fat wads of strange-looking bills, each rolled up with an elastic band.

Hairy looked up to see Hogride opening the other box, taking out a leather folder and sliding it under his coat. Hairy longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

Hogride walked over to Hairy as Goodwinch replaced Duinthadope's box back into its slot on the wall.

"Tha's a lot of Weedster cash there 'airy, we call it Hempscript. Tha big bills are called Elbows, tha smaller ones are Ozzys, and tha smallest are Gees. There's twenty-eight Gees to an Ozzy, and sixteen Ozzys to an Elbow. It's simple, really. One roll o' bills will do yeh for now I reckon. Leave tha rest fer later. Yeh should also grab yerself some o' tha hash."

Hairy grabbed one roll of Hempscript, then chose four jars at random. Goodwinch took back the box and returned it to its space on the wall, then he escorted them from the room.

"Next thing we should get that plant o' yours fixed up," said Hogride as they made their way back up to the street.

"Sure," said Hairy, blinking in the sunshine outside Route 81.