If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-06-18 18:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | cocaine, heroin, marijuana |
Who: Marijuana, Cocaine, Heroin, brief appearance by Tommy.
What: Coke and MJ's Excellent Adventure, Part V: Homecoming!
Where: The Highway.
When: Friday evening.
Warnings: Language, drug use, references to violence.
Over the course of their trip back to New York City, Marijuana started to feel better and better, more settled. It wasn't one specific thing, although buying an excessive amount of food, a carton of cigarettes, several bottles of whiskey, as much heroin as he could score with his limited resources, finding clothes that didn't really fit him but were better than his blood-caked dress shirt and pants, and showering away all the blood and grime that had covered him during their captivity certainly helped. Maybe it was the fact that, with every second that ticked away, he was drawing closer to home, to his husband and his son and a bed that was his own and smelled like Heroin. Their trip wasn't exactly pleasant for Marijuana, save for when he sneaked away from Cocaine to score heroin and shoot up, as Cocaine was still holding fast to the delusion that Burger King was superior to McDonald's and wouldn't let them listen to anything but rap, although he relented and let Marijuana change it to a classic rock station during the last leg of their trip. What was most annoying was how Cocaine wouldn't let Marijuana drive; yes, Marijuana's left hand wasn't exactly in the best condition, but he could have got the hang of it, if Cocaine had given him a chance. But he didn't and Cocaine also made the mistake of forgetting to feed the woman he had stashed in the trunk, Marijuana only remembering after thirty-six hours and prodding Cocaine about it until his older brother actually fed the poor woman. The highlights were calling Heroin from hotels and pay phones, getting a chance to speak to Tommy, checking on on Salvia, and making sure that Cam hadn't exploded the Highway in his absence.
At least, when they were driving, there wasn't much conversation. Marijuana slept as much as he could, half to heal and regain energy and half because, if he was asleep, they didn't have to make conversation. On Friday evening, just as the sky was darkening, however, he woke up with a start, in time to see the first glimpse of New York City. Blinking slowly, he forced himself up in his seat, reaching for the extra gauze and rebandaging his left hand before digging for a lighter and his pack of cigarettes. He chainsmoked until they arrived in Manhattan, until they crossed the border of his inner territory, the clouds of immortal smoke hanging around the edges of the ten blocks Marijuana had claimed as his own. They were laced with something else now, though, someone else, and Marijuana grinned giddily; Heroin had added his power to the Highway defences, which meant that he would know they were approaching. Finally, finally, after more than a week of being away, from the Highway, from his family, from his crew, they pulled into the parking lot behind the Highway and Marijuana practically leaped out of the car, just barely remembering to grab the backpack he'd purchased on Thursday, which contained the tin with Ruis' fingers and ID, the cleaver, and the gun Cocaine had handed to him back in New Mexico. "You coming?" Marijuana asked his older brother, looking far too happy for someone who had just spent almost a week being tortured by a cartel boss and slinging the backpack over his right shoulder.
Slipping his gauze-covered left hand into his pocket, trying to make it look like a casual position, he tested the back door to see if it was locked and, thankfully, it wasn't. "You know," Marijuana said over his shoulder as a way to distract himself from instantly charging in and leaping into Heroin's arms. "I still don't understand what you have against McDonalds. Fucking Happy Meals, man." And then he was inside, coming out around the corner formed by two bong shelves, barely having time to set his backpack down on the floor before... "Daddy!" The squeal was loud enough to wake the dead as Marijuana suddenly found himself with an armful of young god, Tommy practically throwing himself at his father, who wrapped his right arm around his son gently, murmuring a soft greeting. "I missed you! Why did it take you so long to get back?" Tommy, after a moment, remembered his manners and moved back a tad to incline his head in Cocaine's direction. "Uncle Cocaine." And then his attention was back on Marijuana, looking up at him worriedly. "Orders for the crew, Dad?" Marijuana kept Tommy close, half so his son wouldn't think that the hidden position of his left hand was odd, half so he could look at Heroin over Tommy's shoulder, Marijuana's eyes slowly turning bright green as he spoke absentmindedly. "Business as usual. Call them to let them know I'm back, of course, and that I'll have lunch with them all tomorrow. Get Wes to empty out that backpack, he'll know what to do with the contents. Cam's out on a run, I assume? Tell him I don't want to feel him step foot in this shop until he has a comprehensive overview of the business that went on in my absence to present to me. In fact, go over to his apartment and wait for him to come back. You can help him with it, right? Thanks, kiddo." Tommy, with a sidelong glance at Cocaine, merely nodded before moving toward the front of the store, already talking quickly into his cell phone.
And then Marijuana was free to extend his right hand to Heroin, his left still slung into his pocket in a casual stance that his husband would probably see right through. "Hey, you." He said softly, his voice both relieved and a tad desperate, already itching for his husband's hidden needle-nails to bury themselves in his veins.