If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-07-03 16:37:00 |
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Current music: | strange days - the doors |
your ballroom days are over, baby/night is drawing near
Who: Marijuana, Classic Rock and Hippie Subculture <-posting order
What: Jim Morrison's death anniversary
Where: The Watchtower
When: July 3rd.
Warnings: Unstable gods, liquor, drug use, language.
Marijuana woke up the morning of July third with a sick stomach, a throbbing headache and tears already in his eyes. He had dreamed, dreamed of Jim. On stage, back stage, swaggering, smoking, singing, looking beautiful and deadly in a way that'd had Marijuana falling hard back in those days. And if he admitted it to himself, he still loved Jim, in his own way. But, now, today, he wasn't worried about mourning a lover. No, he was mourning a priest, a choir member, one of his and Classic's and Hippies'; one of their shared followers that had loved them so deeply and, eventually, given his life, in a way, to their cause. The lifestyle, the music, the fame, it all drew them in, drove them to drugs and drink and Marijuana shouldn't have been surprised when so many of them died because of them, him, his family. But each death was like a knife through his heart and as he rolled out of bed, it ached, it burned under the Doors hoodie he pulled on. Looking down at his chest, he held back a dry sob, kissed his lover and promised, promised he'd be back before heading downstairs quickly. Filling up two duffel bags with weed, hash, hash oil and a multitude of whiskey bottles, he turned on his iPod.
This is the end... beautiful friend.
Jim's voice crooned in his ears as he decided against a car and simply took one of the skateboards Heroin had given him but the voice in his ears was... it was the result of a machine, something synthetic, it wasn't his voice, not the voice that had actually whispered in his ear when they had fallen into bed together. Slinging the bags over his back and using a bit of his power to make them easier to carry, he drew out a bottle of whiskey and set out, weaving mental smoke around himself to make sure that no cops saw him skateboarding while chugging whiskey. Weaving dangerously between pedestrians and cars, he finished half the bottle before he made it to the Watchtower. Pushing the door open, Jim's face stared down at him from the walls, his voice sang into his ears as Marijuana turned off the iPod and he had to hold back another choked sob. Dropping the iPod and skateboard, he slung the bags down from his back, ignored the employees and customers and instantly locked his mind to Classic's presence.
Upstairs, the employee lounge.
Marijuana practically ran to the door, tested the door knob, found that it was locked and in his desperation to make sure his friend, his King, was alright, Marijuana put a good portion of his power behind a punch aimed at the metal. It broke, the wood splintering around it and the very powerful god ignored the blood dripping down to the floor from his hand as he cast his eyes around the room, saw Classic on the couch with a bottle of alcohol and Marijuana bit his lip. Sinking down next to his friend, he didn't bother to hide the pain in his eyes or the shaking of his fingers as he opened one of the bags, offered Classic a huge joint and took another chug from his whiskey bottle.
"Left us here to sing his song." Marijuana whispered, the lyrics popping into his mind, his mouth modifying them and he reminded himself that he had to be strong. For them, because they were weaker and he was still glutting himself on power. He would hold himself together, take care of his best friends and hope that they would make it through the day.