If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-04-01 20:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | heroin, marijuana |
Who: Marijuana and Heroin
Where: Boonville, cabin near the Adirondack
When: Evening
Warnings: Possible drug use, language, unstable drug gods.
When the first burst of power had come and dragged him out of bed at 4:20 AM, Marijuana's first thought centered on who could help him with this. Who could handle this kind of bubbling, boiling, hurting, destroying black tar? The residue from a million bong hits, from hundreds of thousands of joints, from the dirty, disgusting lungs of each and every stoner in this country? Heroin. And yes, it was selfish of him, yet again, but his big brother had remained in his mind the entire day as he floated around from place to place, fixing problems, giving the trees of Central Park huge amounts of the good power, giving up bits and pieces of himself to thousands of his stoners. Even near Orpheus' temple, the thought remained and once he was finished there, he checked his cell phone and saw that yes, Heroin was allowing him to come, to see him. It made him so happy that seeds dropped out from his body as he walked, burrowing into the ground and flowering up into huge pot plants behind him. It made him so happy that every single stoner in the country broke out into giggles. It made him so happy that even the most suicidal of stoner teenagers were cutting the ropes from the rafters and reaching for a joint instead.
Old music, hippie music, his music poured out from his pores as he continued down the sidewalk and tried to gather his thoughts. No, he couldn't, wouldn't throw himself at Heroin tonight. Not when Trip was waiting so patiently at home, not when Speed seemed to need him so desperately, not while Tracer was getting less and less of Marijuana's attention. The odd thing was, Marijuana was completely sober. He didn't want to feed his own power by toking, didn't want to drag his siblings down into his blackness by using their substances, didn't want to drink and give Alcohol the pleasure. He wasn't even smoking cigarettes or drinking caffeine simply because he didn't trust himself not to drag his cousins down into the depth of his black heart. Sobriety, while normally the antithesis of everything Marijuana was, was his friend at the moment. Normally, without weed in his system, he felt wrong, heavy and light at the same time. Neurotic, compulsive and like an addict desperate for a fix. Now? He was lucid even as his body shook and trembled, even as power, so much power, coursed through his mind, body and essence.
Finally, when he was finished telling himself that he had to behave, Marijuana closed his eyes and took a leap. His mortal form dissolved, just as it had when he had jumped through stoners to get to Orpheus, and Marijuana was simply a mental smoke, jumping, jumping, jumping through the minds of his people. He stayed a few seconds with each those he touched, soothing over past hurts, wringing out current stresses and wrapping them in a hazy hug before he moved on. Casting his senses out like a wide, wide net, he didn't even pay attention to the geography, only to the need to be at Heroin's side. Eventually, he was about a two hour walk away from where his brother was and there were no more stoners to jump into. Marijuana frowned but an idea was growing in his head. Could he really do that again? Could he really use the one power he'd shied away from attempting for decades? In the sixties, he could pull it off if he really needed to and he had never told Trip just how he had managed to appear at his brother's side in the crush and scream of Altamont. Still, in this day and age, with his people dead and dying, his music fading, his very culture a failure?
Marijuana decided that it was worth a try and pulled up all the ever-increasing power he had inside him and willed himself to take his true form. And then... Marijuana became nothing more than a thick cloud of smoke, the wind thankfully speeding him in the right direction as Marijuana exalted at the feeling of pure rightness. Rushing toward Heroin's presence, the smoke swirled around the cabin before trickling through every little break, crack and hole Marijuana could find. The smoke gathered close to the floor, completely opaque before it began to clear, Marijuana at the center, coughing. It was a different Marijuana than his siblings were used to, which would explain his reluctance to see most of them. His skin had turned a light brown with veins of green coursing through the flesh, his fingernails had turned to weed stems and curled down over fingers, his eyes were so green they were almost neon and his hair had lightened to the colour of light dirt. He shook, coughing again and nugs of weed rained down from his hair and fell to the carpet. "Sorry... about the smell." He said in a husky, earthy voice without even looking up at Heroin just yet and raised a hand. It clenched into a fist and the smoke disappeared instantly.
"Didn't even know I could still take that form." He muttered, half to himself and half to his brother before rubbing greened eyes and lifting his head to look around for Heroin, heart up in his throat and body trembling with each toke his people took.