"This will never work."
​
Roger shakes his head in disbelief while he waits at the neighborhood bus stop beside a pile of burnt orange leaves and his heavy set friend, Steven. The autumn wind gusts against Roger's yellow raincoat and brown curly hair. A wooden jellyfish necklace dangles down his gray t-shirt and blows toward the blue sling backpack that hangs off his left shoulder. He impatiently glances at his overly advanced wrist communicator, 'No Messages. Maintaining Optimal Body Temperature. Weather: Forty-Four Degrees Fahrenheit. THC Readings: 22.6%. CBD- 4.8%. Gravity Setting: 100%.'
​
"What's the worst that can happen?" Steven asks. Light rain drizzles onto his attire that looks like a flashback from the 80's; backwards fitted cap, a bright neon windbreaker with a hot pink zipper, and vintage orange hi-top sneakers. He struggles to keep his eyes open due to this morning’s wake and bake.
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"Worst that could happen? Expulsion! Why'd we even mention this field trip to begin with?" Roger says with a frown. His eyes show no evidence of a morning smoke session thanks to his handy Crystal Clear brand eye drops. He sniffles and raises an eyebrow. Suspiciously, he searches for something or someone...
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"Are you guys trying to give Miss Cramptry a contact high?"
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Two stoned hippies saunter onto the scene. Both appear to be older, somewhere in their mid-twenties. On the left, Apollo, the hungover god of the sun. Banished from Mt. Olympus centuries ago due to his wildcard partying and debauchery. He brushes his ragged dirty blonde hair out of his aviator shades. Like most days, he wears his signature multi-color baja poncho and worn out jeans. To the right, Homer, rocking a heavy metal t-shirt, and a pair of cargo pants with a handheld gaming device sticking out of the right pocket. You'd probably better know this closet degenerate as the pot smoking superhero, Stonerman.
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Roger grimaces as his loud friends stand beside him.
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"Or maybe the entire bus, then? Is the incentive here to get caught? Homer, you didn't even shave for the occasion." Roger chagrins. "Maybe we can go another time. When my superiors aren't watching our every move... I'll drive."
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Homer and Apollo's bloodshot eyes meet. "Isn't regular admission like fifty bucks a person?"
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Apollo absolutely appalled at the idea of such pricing.
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Roger grins, "There's free entry with a state ID."
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Apollo begins to speak until Homer cuts in, "You know Apollo hasn't had an ID in decades."
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Before the argument can continue, the school bus stops. The hiss of the opening doors cover Roger's heavy sigh. The four friends enter together. Not one person questions the unexpected presence of the twenty-three year old graduate, Homer, nor the Greek god, Apollo.
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The school bus skirts off with authority, an unexpected departure that almost knocks Homer clean off his feet. Which forces him to use his powers in public again, luckily in a much more subtle way than usual. He reacts with the reflexes of a god to catch his balance. Being high is Homer’s natural state. Usually smoking for enjoyment but no matter the purpose of the toke, THC always activates his godlike superpowers. Which certainly comes in handy during everyday situations, like avoiding a tumble into the lap of Roger's middle aged teacher, Miss Cramptry. He catches up with the Chill Crew at the back of the bus, like old times. Steven flings a briefcase he uses as his backpack behind the rear seat, Roger scoots his sling bag toward the mucky window.
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"You guys think we’ll be able to touch an electric eel to electrify our high?" Steven asks, palming a gold trick coin.
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"I just hope this doesn't suck." Apollo grumbles.
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"We never took field trips like this when I was in school, especially not to the city! This will be good." Homer rebuttals.
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"Oh joy. A city crafted by mortals." Apollo says under his breath.
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Homer misses the comment entirely, his attention drawn elsewhere. His super powered hearing causes him to overhear an overly passionate argument taking place across the bus.
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"You're joking, right? It's illegal again because of that clown." One Student barks.
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"Stonerman’s the reason it was legalized to begin with!" The other Student counters.
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"Dude’s a chugging-machine through and through. He's gotten soft. Outclassed by real heroes like Supreme Spice."
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"Don't tell me you're still smoking that fakebake shit. You'll get brain damage."
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"At least it's legal… And safe! I've been telling you to stay off those conspiracy pages."
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"No. You need to stop following research studies blatantly bought out by FakeGoodGood inc. The fact that they paint the Heroin Ninja as a hero-"
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"Kicked Stonerman’s ass, didn’t he?”
​
After all of these years, living a double life as Stonerman, Homer still doesn't know how to feel or react when others discuss his alter ego around him. Should he defend his honor or let them speculate? Everyone deserves the truth but shouldn’t his actions speak infinitely louder than words? Why risk his identity? Why does he feel the need to join in on a conversation with two people he's never met? Their opinions have no bearing on his ability to spread positivity to the world, so why bother? Stonerman may have won countless battles against evil yet negativity continues to spread all the same. Have his actions made a difference at all?
​
"Right, Homer?" Roger asks.
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"Huh? Sorry, I was focused on Steven's magic trick."
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"The swordfish show. What do you think?"
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"Oh yeah. Sounds sick."
​
It'd be safe to say most know what to expect from a field trip to the aquarium. Those people have never stepped foot inside the Aquatorium-Dome. Founded in 1963 by a pair of psychedelic adventurers, the Aquatorium-Dome was crafted to be an exploration into the deep sea as well as the mind. In the past it has been well documented that visitors often left with a life changing exuberance they've never before experienced. As well as often went completely, and unabashedly, mad. This was of course during a different time. An old fashioned era when doing something like putting an obscene amount of LSD into the public drinking water was considered, "acceptable."
​
The bus parks at the curbside beside the entrance, which happens to be a giant rotating tunnel encased in cylindrical glass walls with blue waves of water splashing on the inside. Something you might see at a carnival fun house, but at an aquarium entryway? A flashy neon light indicates to the class, and the bus driver, that they've indeed arrived at the correct destination.
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The entrance opens to reveal a tunnel as dark as the deepest sea. Students line up. They follow their teacher inside, hands placed against the glass wall so no one will get lost in the dark. The doors slam shut behind them. The pitch black entrance becomes less than welcoming. The only sounds that can be heard are the scarce panicked murmurs of the students. Until, one by one, translucent jellyfish paint the walls. Panic is replaced by gasps as they watch radiant jellyfish swim through the darkness and light the enclosure. Their playful dance provides a colorful path into the grandiose aquarium, which leaves Steven's mouth agape.
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"Definitely aliens, man." He says.
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The crew nod in agreement, lost in the hypnotic glow of the jellyfish, they follow into the massive Dometorium. The area that acts as the access hub to all of the star attractions, 'Life on the Arctic,' 'Ghost Sharks of the Caribbean,' 'Dolphin Transcendence,' 'Peeping on the Pacific,' and 'Other.' The class is greeted by today's ichthyologist, Arnesto.
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"Hello. My name is Arnesto. I will be your fish expert for the day."
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"Which exhibit should we see first?" Roger cannot hide the childlike excitement from his voice.
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Aquatic Be-bop jazz flows through the room, our clear eyed heroes soak in the mind bending, oceanic environment. They discuss the possibilities among each other, until Apollo decides to pop a rather controversial question...
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"Anyone want to hit this?" He asks, retrieving a blunt from his poncho pocket.
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Steven's eyes widen, a smile sweeps his face, Homer nods in unabashed agreement, and Roger dramatically scans the room.
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"I'm still buzzing from this morning." Roger's voice cracks.
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Apollo shakes his head. "I sobered up the moment I stepped onto the bus. You should have told me how trippy this place is. I didn't sufficiently prepare."
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With Roger's eyes hard locked on the inbound Miss Cramptry, he flusters about, spitting out the first suggestion to come to his mind.
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"We'll smoke after. Why not maximize our enjoyment of such an unusual aquarium? Right now."
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Apollo admires the green cigar tucked between his fingers, rolled so perfectly that only a god could have constructed a pearl of this symmetry. Even the known founder of straight edge himself, Galileo, could never pass on it.
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"Oh. I'm about to maximize my enjoyment, alright."
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Miss Cramptry moves in closer, passing the box office.
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Roger fumbles out a panicked whisper...
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"Just take that shit outside! Then spray down and meet me over at the Turtle Zone." He slyly saunters away from the Chill Crew, turning back only for a second, "Save some for afterwards!"
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Roger scurries over to his classmates. He blends in with an organized line that follows Arnesto into the swordfish show.
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"The average sword fish can grow up to ten feet and is able to swim up to speeds of over fifty miles per hour. And let me tell you, the swordfish you are about to see for the day, is no different." Arnesto explains.
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Steven leads Homer and Apollo to the nearest exit, Homer hesitates.
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"Are you sure your teacher won't notice that we're gone?"
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Steven shrugs. "Eh. I've got like, half a year til' graduation. If they haven't expelled me by now, it'll never happen."
​
They sneak out the back exit into a grimy alleyway. Steven questions if this is the spot where they throw out the dead fish. He opens a random trash can, it's filled with used neon glow-sticks, confetti, and discarded pizza boxes. No dead fish, but the place sure smells like it. Apollo slaps his hands against his pockets and scowls. He pats down his tie-dye poncho searching for something.
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"Anyone have a lighter?" He grimaces.
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"Nope." Homer answers.
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Steven perks up, his eyes bulge. He turns back, violently shaking the handle of the self-locking alley door. He pulls on it with all of his force, but the door refuses to budge.
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"Roger has mine." He says in defeat, kicking the door.
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Homer peeks around the corner.
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"Surely there's a gas station nearby." he says. "There's one on every damned street corner in America. If only hookers were as reliable."
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Apollo chuckles. "You mustn't be looking hard enough."
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"Remember when all those gas stations sold bud on the side?" Steven adds. "I miss when it was 'legal.' Twenty-four-Seven I was walking around buzzing harder than a bee on freakin' quaaludes. Those were the days."
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Homer paces over to the sidewalk. He looks into the distance, beyond the endless row of parked cars, minimal trees, and stop signs. Over on Sunken Drift Ave., sits a comfortable oriental resale shop tucked between a cold city landscape.
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"No gas station." he reports. "But I found a shop that looks like the one from Gremlins."
​
With that, it is unanimously decided to check the place out. The three of them step into the quiet shop to be greeted by the unique chime of an enchanted store bell. They wander into a cluttered wonderland of old wicker, perplexing knick-knacks, and curious artifacts. Homer cuts away from the group, fascinated by the book selection. He ganders over some of his childhood favorites, the Goosebumps series, Alex Rider, even the Berenstein Bears.
​
With Homer stuck in the book section and Apollo lost in the 'unconventional erotica of the 1800's,' Steven is determined to get straight to the register. Behind the counter, an elderly woman organizes a pile of books. She places a pink novel labeled, 'Fantasy,' atop a red book labeled 'Adventure,' beside the other, a tattered and rather sad looking book. The color faded to a nasty greenish grey, this one labeled, 'Horror.'
​
Steven forces a polite cough. The Shopkeep lowers her maroon hood to reveal long sun-blonde hair which has begun to fade to grey. She approaches the counter, her peg-leg thumps against the wood floor with every step. Eyes locked on Steven, she doesn't utter a sound. Which leaves him unsure on how to respond.
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"Uh, do you sell lighters here?" Steven asks.
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The Shopkeep raises her brow, distracting from the heavy bags under her eyes.
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"Lighter?" She asks, with a gravely voice that catches Steven off guard. "I trust one is lurking round here somewhere. I'd wager you search long enough you'll be finding much more than yer lighter."
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"We're kinda in a hurry. Got any Zippos?.. Bics?.. Crack lighters? Maybe a tinder kit?"
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The Shopkeep turns her head into her maroon hood. It looks as if she's going to twist her head completely around but just before she does she turns her head back to the front facing direction.
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Her only reply is a deep stare into Steven's eyes.
​
...
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Steven awkwardly turns around and browses the overwhelming selection in search for a lighter. Any lighter to get him out of there. The Shopkeep continues to stare. Nothing seems to be organized in any particular order. A small wooden cupboard entertains his attention with a plastic Indian and cowboy happily sitting atop.
​
The Shopkeep appears behind him, now wielding a massive wooden walking stick.
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"Aye. A beautiful piece but missing a key, she is." The Shopkeep says.
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Steven jolts back into the shelf, the wooden cupboard almost topples to the floor.
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"You know, maybe some matches might do the trick." Unsure, Steven gulps.
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The Shopkeeper retrieves a patterned matchbook from under her robe as well as a long Westershire wood pipe. She tucks the gigantic walking stick into her elbow and strikes a single match. Steven's face lights up along with the flame.
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"Exactly what we're looking for!" He exclaims.
​
The Elderly Shopkeeper puffs on her pipe.
​
"What you're looking for?" She asks.
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A mystifying vibration steals the energy from the room. Steven's gaze shoots past the Shopkeep to a closed off area in the back. He is almost too afraid to ask.
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"What in the hell was that?"
​
She cannot remove the crooked smile from her face as she taps her walking stick on the ground three times. She motions for Steven to follow, with the warning that it'd be wise for his friends to join them. Since there is a strong possibility that he's the only mortal in this room, Steven agrees and calls out to Homer and Apollo.
​
"Find a lighter?" Homer wonders with a stack of books in hand.
​
Apollo's not far behind him. "What was that noise?"
​
The Shopkeep chuckles. She waves her walking stick in a ceremonious way, her rolled up sleeve reveals a rose tattoo above her left wrist.
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"What you've witnessed thus far is that of which is to be mentioned. I have yet to brief ye on me unmentionables."
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Apollo rubs his chin. The Shopkeep may be getting older, but the idea of a chance 'sailor's encounter' doesn't sound like such a bad experience. If that were to be the worst case scenario in his mind, he felt safe in indulging his curiosity.
​
"... What kind of unmentionables?"
​
She glares directly into Apollo's eyes. After a moment, she shifts her full moon stare into Steven, then Homer.
​
"Forbidden items of wonder and intrigue." She coughs. "Each will leave you more mad and least lucid than the last."
​
Homer raises an eyebrow while the Shopkeep burrows her glare directly into Steven's soul. Neither of them blink. Steven tries to decide on a facial expression that doesn't feel awkward. Nothing works. Sweat drips down his worried cheek. The intensity of the Shopkeep grows, her eyes dilate as her deadpan expression remains unchanged.
​
Homer clears his throat. "Uh, I think we'll take that lighter and be on our way."
​
"Come." She waves her staff.
​
As they move closer to the closed off room, the mystic vibrations become more apparent. The rhythmic beating of jungle drums echo from behind the curtain. Homer is not as eager to see what's back there as his friends.
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"So... These items of intrigue. They've driven you mad?"
​
"Every night the depths of my mind be cursed by images of a thousand seas. Each of which look spot for spot identical to both the eye and soul." there is a heaviness in her voice. "Calling to me she be. A voice of trespass whispering into me ears through telepathic means, awaiting my return. The images more real than you or me, boy. I can taste the salt of the seven seas in me throat, feel the perverse ocean air violate me hair. Even now, I hear her waves striking at the shore as I batten down the hatches of me mind."
​
"Doesn't sound so crazy to me." Apollo admits.
​
The woman grins, she holds back laughter. "This ain't no pond, lad! I have yet to witness the sea once in the entirety of my life! And yet I see her image as clear as day?" she erupts with howling laughter. "Any else witnessed what I ad, would've been what unhinged em. But not I." Her whistling and chortling guides past an obscure plethora of Pacific Ocean paintings. "Sane as a sailor's whistle."
​
She uses her wooden cane to pull back the curtain and reveal a cracked door behind it. The deep drums grow more intense. They sound angry...
​
The rapid drumming crescendos as our heroes enter. Concentration has become impossible. The sound overwhelms their senses... "Keep quiet!" The Shopkeep shouts as she smacks a detailed wooden board game. The drumming comes to a breakneck halt. The air in the room drops silent. Our heroes are drawn towards the back, behind a hefty safe labeled, 'Deity Armory,' a glass case that contains a wide variety of smoking utensils, most of which appear to be from other centuries or planets.
​
Face pressed against the glass, Steven's attention is stolen by one piece in particular. A mighty bubbler that stands above the rest. With beautiful triple blown glass, a sherlock shaped piece with a chameleon-like color scheme that changes depending on the angle you look at it. The gold plated base is embroidered with emeralds and rubies. The other pipes are an embarrassment in comparison to this Holy Grail of glass. Steven's eyes glued to his wonder-pipe until his glance drops down to the reality of the price tag.
​
"Twenty thousand?" He questions with a frown... "Is that yen?"
​
"No. Twenty dollars." The Shopkeep says.
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Steven responds with a suspicious squint.
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The Shopkeeper smacks him in the head with her walking stick.
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"Walking stick? More like walloping stick." Homer jokes.
​
Apollo sighs with a slight chuckle... "Shut the fuck up, Homer."
​
Steven massages his head, "What was that for?"
​
The Shopkeeper is as helpful as ever.
​
"I think Davy Jones himself would be out of harm's way in suspect'n this is the item you lads seek."
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"It is seriously sick..." Steven admits before blurting out, "What's wrong with it?"
​
"Billows like a lucid dream. A hit so smooth and satisfying that the sea herself couldn't prevent the events that transpire. Lighter included... Although the brooding waters often warn-"
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Steven excitedly waves the twenty dollar bill that his mom gave him for lunch money and a souvenir.
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"It just so happens to be the exact amount of money I have in my pocket! We'll take it!"
​
The Shopkeep nods. She opens the glass case, swats away the dusty cobwebs and hands over the wondrous bubbler. Sold. Our three heroes pace away with their prize in hand, now heading for the bright green exit sign with eagerness in their eyes. Until, the Shopkeeper reveals one last anecdote of advice...
​
"Remember. Many have their way with destiny but what is to happen when destiny has its way with you?" She asks before boiling over into a disturbing hysteria of laughter.
​
The crew turn toward the exit.
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"Boys!" She calls out.
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Apollo, Steven, and Homer stop in their tracks.
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"Don't forget your lighter."
​
Our three heroes smuggle the bubbler back to their favorite smoke spot, Steven's garage attic. An attic turned stoner clubhouse, aptly nicknamed, "The Fort." One by one they ascend a rickety ladder that's been hanging there since the seventies. They pull themselves onto a lush green shag carpet. The room is lit mostly by unconventional means, black lights, lava lamps, and Christmas lights strung across the slanted ceiling. Movie posters and psychedelic imagery decorate the walls. A crime surveillance computer is tucked in the corner across from a sprouting marijuana plant. Four chairs are grouped around an old coffee table, facing an old white box antenna television with multiple vintage gaming systems hooked up to it.
​
Steven twists the dial until he lands on a cartoon channel. He scoots his gas mask bong aside and places the robust bubbler center of the table where there's the most sunlight. Steven opens a rusty Huey Lewis and the News lunch box and retrieves his secret stash from inside an empty Abbott & Costello cassette case, as well as a Pokèball themed grinder. He pours out the pre-ground contents of the grinder onto the rolling tray and hums to himself, "Gotta pack em' all. Pack the bong."
​
{WHO'S THAT STRAIN?
​
A potent sativa with effects that hit like the freight train at the end of Batman Begins. Mexican and Thai Sativas were bred with Afghani Indicas to produce this Northern Californian sweet lemon and spicy pine aroma. This strain begins its speedy hurtle through the mind with a surge of euphoria, which awakens creativity and happiness. Migraines, pain, and arthritis are aided by the high-THC content, and many patients use it for the relief of anxiety. These flowers are ready for harvest after 8 weeks.
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WHAT'S YOUR GUESS?
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ARE YOU READY?
​
​
.....
.....
... Its Train Wreck!}
​
Steven's arm rubs up against the bubbler when he reaches for the slide. Suddenly... He changes his mind and gives the bubbler to Homer instead.
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"Needs water." He says, grinding up more weed.
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"Fine." Homer replies. "Oof. This shits dustier than- What's this?" some sort of inscription on the side. "I can't quite make it out." He says as he delicately polishes the bubbler...
​
"Don't scratch it!" Steven cries out.
​
"Hmmmm." he mutters puzzled. "How am I supposed to read these hieroglyphics?"
​
Apollo scoffs. "Let me see."
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He wipes off a layer of dust off with his poncho sleeve.
​
"Oh. They're literally hieroglyphics... Fuck if I know. Do I still have Ra's number? Maybe Roger can translate?"
​
Steven snatches the bubbler, then filters the water out several times to properly clean the old piece. With a spark of the new lighter, he inhales the smoothest hit of his life. Then exhales a sparkling smoke cloud that quickly fills the room to a complete hot-box. His eyes slant and fade to a crimson red. Now he's in the right state of mind to examine the writing on the bubbler.
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"Well, there's a bird. An eye. A dog and then some squiggly guy... Hmmm. In canus corporae transmuto?.. This is too dusty. Oh! Wait. Birdesstrumadom es be cottum. Eyexamium Delorous rey esquatum. Wonkatania. Gogtkcha!!"
​
There is no response. Homer and Apollo aren't quite sure what to make of Steven's translation when the awkward silence is broken...
​
"What if this thing is cursed?" Homer asks.
​
"Only one way to find out." Apollo replies.
​
Three bowls later, our heroes sit stoned, ripped, twisted. Good people. Reminiscing about their latest visit to the Area 51 Drive Inn, the only theater going experience where rules and regulations are truly optional. Where anarchist law rule. A unique movie going experience that has become a summer staple of their friendship.
​
When suddenly...
​
"Weren't we supposed to meet up with Roger?" Homer remembers.
​
Oh shit. The crew gathers their belongings. Steven switches off the TV, carefully wraps a cloth around the bubbler, about to stash it into his lunch box when an unknown voice calls out...
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"Your offering has been deemed acceptable."
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An enchanted tune resonates from the ancient bubbler. Steven drops it onto the coffee table. It quakes so forcefully that the entire garage trembles. Dazzling black smoke emits from the mouthpiece, glowing vapor enclosed by a whirlwind of celestial orbs that gusts into a shapeless anthropomorphic form.
​
It's face is concealed by the skull of a dragon, which has been crafted into a lavish mask. This creature wears an emerald hemp gown that drapes down to it's wispy ghost-like tail. The only visible detail of the being's face are the soft green eyes that peer from behind the bone veil. A gem sits center of the mask, flowing from one color to another.
​
" ~θ I am the intoxicated Jihnn of the upmighty bubbler- Huuuuoooffggh. Upon this snazzlin' summoning... ... ... ... You are granted- ... ... Blegh. Where's the trash can!? I'm going to fuckin' puke! θ~"
Chapter 2: Smoke and Wishes
"What does a wish become once it's granted?"
