I’m gonna tell y’all a little about my drug dealer. We’ll call him Frankie the Weed Man. Now Frankie and I have been close friends for a very long time. We know each other very well. And good old Frankie just got himself a new house. Well, it’s not a new house, and it’s not really his. He has three other room mates, but you get the idea, he just moved in. And Frankie is a younger fellow, so this is the first time he’s lived away from his family. I’ve kind of been procrastinating about going over to visit him. There’s no easy way to get there on my scooter. It’s either balls to the wall speeders on highway 40, or it’s pissed off rednecks in gigantic trucks down little old skinny ass, crazy winding Old Garner Road. Either way spells probable death for yours truly. Plus I’ve been busy as hell anyway, between work, studying, chores, alcohol classes, and spending way too much time on Facebook and looking at porn, well I’ve been pretty well swamped for time. But he came over last night and told me I had fifteen minutes to get ready, cause we were going to hang out at his house. So I got my ass off MSN messenger, cleaned up a little, and hopped in his car to go have some fun.
Now, I don’t really need a good weed connection. I’m what you might call a light weight. But as any of you who have spent any time purchasing drugs will know, dealers tend to be kind of like Cheech and Chong. They get really into their pot scene, and sometimes go a bit overboard with it all. First of all, on the way to his house we stopped at a country gas station for some booze. Since he’s underage I told him to chill in the car while I got my Budweiser, and of course he promptly forgot all about it and walked right in to buy some blunt papers. It’s a small store with these ancient country folks running it, and they know we came in the same vehicle, especially when we end up right next to each other in line. So Frankie gets his mango-strawberry-cool whip-hickory smoked blunt wraps, or whatever those freaks have come out with this week, and the old man is just scowling at him like he ran over his dog or some shit. He’s clearly one of those old school baptist country boys, who frown on things like smoking weed and getting drunk and saying fuck really loud when you accidentally knock over a bunch of beef jerky. Anyway, old man river is looking right pissy when I set my twenty case up on the counter. He just scowls at me, not saying a word. So I scowl right back at him, and very very slowly pull out my wallet. We have our little stare down and then the transaction continues and I walk the hell out of there before he goes vigilante justice on my ass. Me and frankie laughed about it on the way out. Apparently he was giving the old man a hard time too. Surly bastard.
Anyway, so right before we get to his house he warns me not to have sex with Blondie. Now, I’ve never met Blondie before, so I appreciate the lookout, but normally I pretty much trust my own judgment on what sort of strangers I meet at my drug dealers house I want to sleep with, and which ones I want to avoid. (mainly all of them) So I asked him why exactly should I pass on Blondie’s tang if it was available. Apparently she has herpes. Good call Frankie, I’ll make sure to never ever bang that chick. Close one, sort of.
We go in and flick on the lights and he tells me that none of his room mates are home right now, but one of their moms is going to be stopping by later for some pot, so not to freak out if she showed up unannounced. I thought I could manage that. Now this house is a very old farm house. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a hundred years old or more. All the rooms have weird angles. It’s full of those twists and turns, and surprise nooks that you only find in old houses that have been built on to over the years. And it turns out that this house is also racist. No joke, the living room is covered with murals of old plantation life. At first glance it just looks like some pleasant pictures of people riding horses and having picnics. But then you look a little closer and all those people are rich white folks. The rest of the mural is black slaves leading the horses back to the barn, and I’m not kidding one single bit, picking cotton. Bahahahahaha! Cotton picking slaves! That’s so horrifically politically incorrect that it blows my mind. I can’t believe no one has painted over it in all these years. It’s clearly been there for a very long time.
So we head on up to his bedroom, and I’m telling him how I love old houses. He said he liked everything but the ghosts. “Ghosts?” Well apparently there’s some sort of cellar where he thinks black slaves were tortured. I think he’s just been smoking too much reefer. So he whips out his bud, consisting of several very large bags of different grades, and picks the one he wants to pack up Camel Tits with. (Camel tits is a zig zag shaped bong with a picture of a camel that has tits for humps) Now, I haven’t smoked out of a bong for years. Like I said before, I’m a lightweight. So of course upon hearing this he packs up his hairiest heady dank, and even pulls out some dank crystals he had been collecting from his dank only grinder. Skip ahead a few minutes as Frankie is hollering down the hall at me, “if you’re gonna puke do it in the sink! The toilet leaks into Nicks room!” I didn’t puke, but I did take one hell of a dank ass bong hit, followed by a few more. What the hell right? I mean life is short, I might as well have some fun with my dealer. Who needs functional lungs?
So he hands me a purple marker and tells me to draw something on the door paper thingie. After closing the door to get to the back side I was greeted with a big sheet of paper across the back labeled “door paper thingie”. Me thinks I have found what I was looking for. I started drawing a dragons head, but quickly realized that dragons drawn in purple are inherently non-badass, so I gave up on the whole gnarly death lizard thing and gave him black-face lips and a corn cob pipe. At this point I notice the naked chicks at the top of the door. “Sweet, nice pussy dude” was my first reaction.
Now I did not know it at the time, but apparently these two posters of fine young women putting on display what the good Lord had given them was more than just two posters of naked chicks. Turns out it’s their secret gay test. Apparently Frankie and his room mate across the hall have had some guys come over and they weren’t sure if they were ….. digging in the oyster ditch or playing the meat flute, so they devised a gay test that was a secret between the two of them. They would seat said individual on the couch facing the door and casually swing it shut. If their first reaction was something about the ladies, they were straight. If they didn’t say anything about the girls, they were fags. Not that they hate fags or anything, they just like to know. But I passed. I asked Frankie if he had to deal with a lot of gay folks and he just laughed. Apparently right before he had come to pick me up he had accidentally found a butt plug at one of his gay clients houses. I can’t write down his reaction because it was just a long series of faces and guttural sounds, but let me assure you it was funny as shit. Kind of like Earnest P. Worrell.
We had some really funny stuff go down, and I can’t even remember all of it, mostly because of the dank bong hits and the beer, but just a few more stories of interest. I saw my first hydroponic setup. They’ve got a wicked little grow room hidden away in part of their roof. And they’ve got a bunch of little seeds germinating from five different kinds of dank strains. I am excited to see that take off. He had another bong he called the Nintendo. Probably like myself you are wondering why they named it that. Well apparently it only takes cartridges. If you don’t know what cartridges are, don’t feel dumb, neither did I. Apparently you roll up a blunt, dry it out, and cut it into four pieces. These can be inserted into the slider on a bong, and give you four hits or so of premium blunt flavor. And each little section of blunt looks like the cartridges that Spider man uses to shoot web. Cool name but lame application. I hate blunts. I think they taste like dog shit and should only be smoked by the ghetto ass urban bitches who came up with them. I think respectable potheads should smoke from pipes and bowls and bongs and shit, and limit their rolled up smoking to joints like God intended, but apparently I’m the last person on earth who thinks that, so too fucking bad for me. (I don’t like 50 cent either, and I think corn rows look retarded) Plus it’s almost impossible to pass around a blunt with half the people you-know-what lipping it. Bah! I hate blunts.
He had a tit ball. This is even more kick ass than whatever you are thinking of. Imagine a rubber ball filled with some sort of liquid, so it jiggles like a tit. And on one side, is a nipple. It’s all painted to look like a human tit and everything. And they invented a game to go with tit ball. Basically you have to make a basket out of your hand and keep the tit ball jiggling, then pass it back and forth. Whoever drops it, or accidentally stops jiggling it looses.
So anyway, we had gone down to the kitchen for some more beer, and I asked him where this torture dungeon cellar was where apparently he had said they got their ghosts from. I mean, you can’t just tell me you have a haunted dungeon under your house and not show me the damn thing. He opened this door that lead down to the cellar, but the light wasn’t working. So he went off looking for a flashlight to show me. He couldn’t find one. So instead we pulled out our lighters and headed down the staircase into the pitch black cellar. You could feel the cold air blowing past you as we descended the rickety stairs. I had to duck to avoid hitting my head, and the bottom stair was broken, which I found out right about the same time I found out the hand rail was only barely attached. In the blackness I could smell that stale dirt smell that really old cellars have. There was a light bulb, but it was blown out. It was a short room, looked to be the size of the house, but honestly I couldn’t see more than seven or eight feet ahead of me with the tiny flame as our light.
The ceiling, built low to begin with, was made even lower by the air ducts that had been added onto the house some time after electricity was invented. You had to stoop over to walk around, and old cobwebs hung from every beam and duct. The house above us creaked and groaned from the wind, complaining of old age to anyone who would listen. Frankie lead me to the back wall of the cellar where there was a door built into the block wall. It appeared to be a very sturdy door, with those old hand wrought hinges, and a large metal beam that locked it shut. It was stuck in place, so Frankie had to push on the door as I slid out the cross bar, in the dark since neither of us could use our lighters for this. I set the bar up against the wall and pulled on the door. It was heavy, and groaned at me as I opened it. One of the air ducts had been placed close to the door, so it only opened enough to barely fit one person in if you squeezed. Frankie told me this is where they had kept the slaves who were bad, and tortured them when they tried to escape. So I held up my tiny flame and peered inside, but saw only cobwebs and falling dust from the door. So I put my flame hand in first and slid my body in sideways between the door and it’s frame. I stood there just inside the tiny room, trying to make out images in the flickering light. Right then Frankie screamed and grabbed me.
I am not going to lie, I hollered something awful loud. He got me good on that one. There were never any ghosts. The lights worked just fine. He had actually brought it all up at the beginning of the night trusting that my own curiosity would eventually lead me down into the basement for a good scare. One day I am going to own a house with a creepy ass basement and scare the living shit out of people all the time. It was priceless. And the lighter part, that was pure genius. I should have seen it coming, in fact the thought had crossed my mind that he was going to try and scare me when we got down in there, but still he completely surprised me. The timing, the scenery, every part of that practical joke was executed perfectly. So here’s a tip of the hat to Frankie the Weed Man for scaring the crap out of me, I loved it dude. That was like watching all two hours of the Devils Rejects for the first time, except cramming all the fear into ten seconds. Cheers you hilarious asshole. You’ve got it coming.