PotHead and The Marijuana Stone - By Dana Larsen
CHAPTER 1 - THE LAST OF THE LINE
An old man stood in the night time
shadows on the end of Mainstream Drive. He was tall and
thin, with long silver hair and an even longer beard, which
was tucked under a belt whose buckle was a large, silver,
His blazing red eyes were hidden behind
half-moon mirrored spectacles, which sat on the tip of
a long, crooked nose. He wore a heavy purple robe with
blue trim, pants with yellow and red stripes, and a long
undercoat interwoven with intricate patterns of the same
leaf as that on his belt. The leaf appeared again on the
large buckles which adorned his high-heeled boots. All
of his clothes were made of 100% pure hemp.
The man's name was Alwaze Duinthadope.
He reeked of marijuana so strongly that police dogs were
howling thirty blocks downwind.
Duinthadope didn't seem to realize
that he was in a neighbourhood where everything from his
scent to his buckles was unwelcome. He glanced up at the
thin sliver of moon, then looked impatiently at his wristwatch,
which had five hands and the number 4 at all twelve points
on the dial.
"Almost 4:20 in Moscow..."
he muttered to himself. "I hope he gets here soon."
Duinthadope reached into an inner pocket
and pulled out a long, thick joint of pungent marijuana,
lighting it and slipping it between his lips in one smooth
motion. He took a long, strong drag, drawing the aromatic
smoke deeply into his powerful lungs, then expelling it
through his nose in a thick, steady stream.
A woman emerged from the shadows across
the street, and walked briskly in Duinthadope's direction.
She had a severe look, and wore heavy square glasses with
markings on them like the spots on a cat. She, too, was
wearing a thick hempen cloak, of emerald green. Her black
hair was drawn into a tight bun, inside of which was hidden
a carefully wrapped stash of potent THC-infused toffees.
When she was next to him, Duintahdope
smiled grimly and passed her the joint. The woman looked
distinctly ruffled, but her mood seemed to mellow as she
took a slightly lighter hit than Duinthadope, then cupped
the joint in both her hands and inhaled the smoke coming
from the blazing cherry.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor
McGanjagal." said Duinthadope quietly, his mirrored
glasses reflecting the spot of orange glowing in the darkness.
McGanjagal tilted her head back and
blew a series of smoke rings in the air, before handing
Duinthadope back the bomber. Any passer-by would have
smelled their smoke, but seen only the red cherry moving
in the dark shadows between suburban houses.
"You know what they're saying?"
McGanjagal asked quietly, then continued without waiting
for a reply. "They're saying that Whats-his-face
himself led the raid on the Pothead's growhouse. They
say that he killed the Potheads, that Mary-Jane and Jay
Pothead are dead!"
Duinthadope took the joint away from
his mouth, and bowed his head sadly. Professor McGanjagal
"Mary-Jane and Jay... I can't
believe it... I don't want to believe it... Oh, Alwaze..."
Duinthadope reached out and patted
her on the shoulder. "I know, I know..." he
"That's not all," she continued,
after a moment. "They also said that he tried to
kill the Pothead's son, Hairy. That he went there to kill
them all, but that when he tried to kill Hairy Pothead,
Whats-his-face was horribly hurt and disfigured, possibly
killed in the blaze, burned to death."
"I certainly hope so," replied
Duinthadope, "although apparently his body has not
been recovered. But come on, can't we call him by his
proper name? Officer Pasdepot." (He pronounced the
name with a silent 's', as if the first three letters
were 'paw.') Professor McGanjagal flinched at the name,
but Duinthadope seemed not to notice.
"But it's true?" faltered
Professor McGanjagal. "After all he's done, the lives
he's ruined, he was stopped while trying to kill a little
boy? It's just astounding..."
She was interrupted by a low rumbling
sound which broke the silence around them. It grew steadily
louder as a huge motorbike with sidecar came roaring around
the corner and into view. The man riding it was massive,
he looked bigger than humanly possible, with wild, long
tangles of black hair, and a thick, bushy beard that hid
most of his face. He was clad almost entirely in leather,
from heavy black boots to a leather jacket with a patch
on the shoulder, of a winged skull wearing a red helmet.
He stopped the engine, reached into the sidecar with his
vast, muscular arms, and took out a small bundle of blankets.
"Hogride!" said Duinthadope,
striding forward and taking the bundle from the biker's
arms. "At last! Did anyone follow you?"
"No sir," said the giant,
climbing off the motorbike. "Tha 'ouse was almos'
destroyed, but I got 'im out all right afore the cops
started ta swarm aroun'. He fell asleep while we was drivin'
McGanjagal passed the still-burning
joint to Hogride, who took it between his thick fingers
and inhaled the rest of it in one, long toke. Then she
bent over the bundle of blankets as Duinthadope opened
them to peer inside. They could see a baby boy, fast asleep.
Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead, they
could see a curiously-shaped cut, like a seven-pointed
"Is that what - ?" whispered
"Yes," said Duinthadope.
"He'll have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about
"Even if I could, I wouldn't,"
replied Duinthadope. "Scars can come in useful. I
have one myself above my left knee which is a miniature
map of every outdoor crop on the West Coast. Anyways,
let's get this over with."
Duinthadope turned towards a nearby
"Could I - could I say goodbye
ta him, sir?" asked Hogride sheepishly, flicking
the tiny roach from his hand.
He bent his great, shaggy head over
Hairy and exhaled a thick cloud of sweet smoke which surrounded
the sleeping child, then leaned in closer and gave him
what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Suddenly,
Hogride let out a wail like a wounded pit bull.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor
McGanjagal. "You'll wake the Squares!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hogride,
taking out a large hemp handkerchief and burying his face
in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Mary-Jane and
Jay dead - an' poor little 'airy off ter live with Squares
"It's the best place for him,"
said Duinthadope firmly. "His aunt and uncle will
be able to explain everything to him when he's older.
I've written them a letter."
"A letter?" repeated Professor
McGanjagal faintly. "Really, Duinthadope, you think
you can explain all this in a letter? These people will
never understand him. This boy is a Pothead! I doubt these
folks have ever had a toke in their lives."
"Exactly," said Duinthadope.
"Where better to hide the boy until things blow over?
He'll be better growing up here, away from all of that,
until he's ready to take it."
Duinthadope turned and stepped over
the low garden wall, then walked to the front door. He
laid Hairy gently on the doorstep, took a letter written
on hemp paper out of his cloak and tucked it inside Hairy's
blankets, then came back to join his two companions.
They stood and looked at the bundle,
then Duinthadope lit another joint and they shared it
"Well," said Duinthadope
finally, "that's that. We've no business staying
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket
sleeve, Hogride silently swung himself onto the motorbike
and kicked the engine to life. With a roar he rode off
into the night.
"I shall see you soon I expect,
Professor McGanjagal," said Duinthadope, nodding
to her. She smiled wanly, popped a toffee into her mouth,
and turned to walk away.
Duinthadope walked the other way, lighting
up another joint as he went. "Good luck, Hairy,"
he murmured, as he disappeared into the darkness and a
fresh cloud of pungent smoke.
A breeze ruffled the hedges of Mainstream
Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the moonlit sky.
Hairy Pothead rolled over inside his soft hemp blankets
without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter
beside him, his other hand clutching a small seed which
even Duinthadope hadn't noticed.
Hairy slept on, not knowing that
he was special, not knowing that his parents had died
in a fire sparked during a raid on their home marijuana
garden... not knowing that he would be woken in a few
hours time by Mrs Straitley's screams as she opened the
front door to put out the recycling, nor that he would
spend the next few weeks being pinched and prodded by
his cousin Studly... He couldn't know that at this very
moment, people meeting in secret all over the country
were holding up their bongs, and saying in hushed voices:
"To Hairy Pothead - the last of the line!"