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Hairy PotHead and The Marijuana Stone - By Dana Larsen


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, seven-pointed leaf.

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 gasped.

"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 said heavily.

"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' 'ere."

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 leaf.

"Is that what - ?" whispered Professor McGanjagal.

"Yes," said Duinthadope. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it?"

"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 house.

"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 in silence.

"Well," said Duinthadope finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here."

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!"



© Copyright 2007 Dana Larsen