S
Sat X RB
I was invited on a road trip recently to the tropical wilds of Queensland. The crop where we were going had been washed out by this summer's big rain so I thought I 'd take up some Sativa to give to the boys up there. To energise their winter. So I filled a supermarket bag with green, tied the handles together and was putting the bundle down beside my pack when Minnow noticed what I was doing.
I 'm Minnow's husband. She's a good sort of a Sheila. She's especially good at getting to the point, which is why she pointed and said: “What about the Police?”
Now any husband who's been married for a while will know it's best to let wives think of solutions themselves, so I stayed silent. After a while realisation spread across her face. She said: “Oh. Beethoven will take the bust.”
So we manly men set off up the highway in our 4wd wagon to the mountainous Tropics. And we drove and smoked and drove and smoked.
Our driver didn't smoke. But each time we did, even though all the widows were down, our driver would stop talking and go into a sort of trance. We'd noticed his body would keep working but lots of his brain would stop. Especially the talking part. And outside the windscreen miles would stream smoothly by while inside, for a time, there would be a spacy, comfortable silence.
We picked up a hitchhiker who didn't smoke either. He got out as soon as possible after he woke up. For him it was all too strange.
It WAS strange, because you see, our VIP passenger was Beethoven (not the Beethoven). We were taking him back to his gold mine one last time. Beethoven is a 67 year old Czech immigrant who never quite mastered English but who likes to talk a lot. He has long white hair and wears a red head band. His beard is long and white too but is Asian-stringy which he claims is because Genghis Khan's blood runs in his family. I reckon it's more probably because his Mum was raped, or perhaps not, by an Asiatic Communist soldier during the war in Europe.
Beethoven can't swing a pick these days. Or even pull-start the Honda motor on his gold dredge. Now he's skinny as fuck with this weird looking swollen, lumpy, shiny-skinned belly sticking out front.
And he wears this boxy-looking bag over his shoulder and a clear plastic tube runs from it to inside his shirt. Then the tube ends in a syringe, skin-popped into his stomach area, which transfers morphine into him from a machine inside the bag.
He would order the car to stop in front of seafood stores then after a while would order the car to stop again a couple of times more so he could go shit.
When we got to one town Beethoven spent the afternoon playing blackjack in the Casino. This surprised us because nowadays Beethoven goes on the nod a lot. His afternoons are usually snoozy. But when we checked how he was going after three hours or so we were amazed to find the adrenalin of gambling had kept him awake. The players at Beethoven's table were amazed by him too but for different reasons.
We had to prise him out of a bar in another town where he is well known. Seems part of his popularity there was due to the morphine tabs he was selling before his pain grew too much and the pills gave way to a pump.
Beethoven has cancer everywhere in his guts. He was given a few months to live almost two years ago. But the growths are noticeably distending his stomach now. Perhaps he's only got weeks and days. He doesn't seem worried by this. He's too busy getting on with Life.
Anyway, the boys up north got their gift of dope. And that's the end of my story about a way to shift a seriously bustable quantity of dope from one end of the country to the other without fear. And how I planned for a Friend to take the bust and at the same time remained true to him. The icing on the cake was that for a little while I even got to imagine the laws about possession of cannabis didn't apply to me. Which I must say felt unusually relaxing.
And all because a Friend is in the last stages of terminal cancer.
Cheers All!
PS: evrything clear? you DO realise the Police have extreme difficulty busting the almost dead?
I 'm Minnow's husband. She's a good sort of a Sheila. She's especially good at getting to the point, which is why she pointed and said: “What about the Police?”
Now any husband who's been married for a while will know it's best to let wives think of solutions themselves, so I stayed silent. After a while realisation spread across her face. She said: “Oh. Beethoven will take the bust.”
So we manly men set off up the highway in our 4wd wagon to the mountainous Tropics. And we drove and smoked and drove and smoked.
Our driver didn't smoke. But each time we did, even though all the widows were down, our driver would stop talking and go into a sort of trance. We'd noticed his body would keep working but lots of his brain would stop. Especially the talking part. And outside the windscreen miles would stream smoothly by while inside, for a time, there would be a spacy, comfortable silence.
We picked up a hitchhiker who didn't smoke either. He got out as soon as possible after he woke up. For him it was all too strange.
It WAS strange, because you see, our VIP passenger was Beethoven (not the Beethoven). We were taking him back to his gold mine one last time. Beethoven is a 67 year old Czech immigrant who never quite mastered English but who likes to talk a lot. He has long white hair and wears a red head band. His beard is long and white too but is Asian-stringy which he claims is because Genghis Khan's blood runs in his family. I reckon it's more probably because his Mum was raped, or perhaps not, by an Asiatic Communist soldier during the war in Europe.
Beethoven can't swing a pick these days. Or even pull-start the Honda motor on his gold dredge. Now he's skinny as fuck with this weird looking swollen, lumpy, shiny-skinned belly sticking out front.
And he wears this boxy-looking bag over his shoulder and a clear plastic tube runs from it to inside his shirt. Then the tube ends in a syringe, skin-popped into his stomach area, which transfers morphine into him from a machine inside the bag.
He would order the car to stop in front of seafood stores then after a while would order the car to stop again a couple of times more so he could go shit.
When we got to one town Beethoven spent the afternoon playing blackjack in the Casino. This surprised us because nowadays Beethoven goes on the nod a lot. His afternoons are usually snoozy. But when we checked how he was going after three hours or so we were amazed to find the adrenalin of gambling had kept him awake. The players at Beethoven's table were amazed by him too but for different reasons.
We had to prise him out of a bar in another town where he is well known. Seems part of his popularity there was due to the morphine tabs he was selling before his pain grew too much and the pills gave way to a pump.
Beethoven has cancer everywhere in his guts. He was given a few months to live almost two years ago. But the growths are noticeably distending his stomach now. Perhaps he's only got weeks and days. He doesn't seem worried by this. He's too busy getting on with Life.
Anyway, the boys up north got their gift of dope. And that's the end of my story about a way to shift a seriously bustable quantity of dope from one end of the country to the other without fear. And how I planned for a Friend to take the bust and at the same time remained true to him. The icing on the cake was that for a little while I even got to imagine the laws about possession of cannabis didn't apply to me. Which I must say felt unusually relaxing.
And all because a Friend is in the last stages of terminal cancer.
Cheers All!
PS: evrything clear? you DO realise the Police have extreme difficulty busting the almost dead?
