If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-04-23 11:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | marijuana, sato |
Who: Marijuana and Sato
Where: Hotel in Queens
When: Thursday afternoon
Warnings: Drug use, possible language. Does tired!unbalanced!MJ count?
Marijuana had tried to clean up the room, he really had. But he was in the middle of one of the worst benders he'd put himself through in years. Hurting LSD, hurting Speed, it had tore through him. In 1953, when LSD had opened beautiful powder blue eyes for the first time and said his first word, Marijuana, something had woken inside him and claimed LSD, focused on him as its own. It was the first appearance of the tar inside him, the res of thousands of stoners and now that Marijuana had relinquished that claim, it was in a state of constant flux. At least he had kept the black vomit contained to the washroom but there was nothing he could do about the holes in the walls, the large hole in the TV, the stale smell of oppressive smoke or the fact that his eyes had changed permanently to a deep, dark, soulless, pitiless black.
Still, he had tidied after waking up from a twelve hour portion of his long nap. He had gathered all the torn pages of the hotel bible and shoved them into the trash, picked up the alarm clock and lamp from where he had thrown them against the bathroom mirror, got rid of all the chip bags and cookie boxes and had even emptied the ashtrays. Quite a bit of effort for him but Sato could hurt his family. Obviously he was more powerful, but he respected the baku. After all, she was a leech just like he was and besides, both Cam and Matt liked Mischa. He didn't want to be angry at her.
But if she had touched Heroin, he would be. Marijuana could function without sleep, could function with insomia and the gaping holes where the baku had gnawed through dreams and even if Heroin could too, his brother needed all the sleep he could get. Besides, if there had to be someone in Heroin's dreams, Heroin's mind, Marijuana wanted it to be him. His thoughts raced, the black boiled within him as he waited, sitting back in a chair with his feet up on the hotel provided table, heroin already rushing through his veins as he healed up the scars on his elbows and shoved the needle, spoon and tubing under a magazine.
Lighting up a joint, he reached for the iPod Heroin had sent him weeks, maybe a month in advance of the beginning of their relationship and closed his blackened eyes, waiting and trying to relax.