The Chronicles of Chronics

By Lachlan J.A.MacDonald

The Chronicels of Chronics is a feel good dark comedy that chronicels the lives of pot smoking chronics living in the interior of British Columbia Canada

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Jan 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634132657

Book preview

marijuana…

1

The Dealers

Wake and bake

Bud and Kate were sleeping in a king bed that consisted only of two box springs and one foam mattress; it took up the majority of the room in their small cabin loft. At the foot of the bed, their cat Bill, a big, orange, husky tabby purred loudly while taking in the morning sun.

Bud, who was in his late twenties, was a fit six-one with thick curly black hair that exemplified his pale skin complexion. However, Bud’s eyes were his most unusual feature—one eye was blue and the other eye was green. His better half, Kate, who was in her mid-twenties, a red-haired, blue-eyed, voluptuous Amazon beauty, stood six-feet tall. Her fair, freckled skin complexion usually burnt in the sun.

Bud opened one eye—the green one—to see his alarm clock radio on the floor read 11:07. Just beyond the alarm clock radio was his bong. The alarm clock radio suddenly went off, playing Doug & the Slugs eighties tune Makin’ It Work. Bud rose from the bed like Frankenstein, grabbed his bong, lit up, and took a hoot. There wasn’t a better way to start the day than waking and baking.

Kate slowly sat up beside Bud in bed, stretched her arms, and yawned.

Do you want some? Bud asked, offering her the bong in a cough-rasped voice.

Yeah, Kate said, grabbing the bong and taking a hoot. So, are you going to take Arewood out on your rounds today? she asked in her own cough-rasped voice.

Yeah, that’s the plan, Bud replied. He got out of bed and stretched. What do you think you’re going to get up to today?

Bill let out a howl of a meow, interrupting the discourse, before meandering off the bed.

I wasn’t asking you Bill, Bud said to his cat. I already know what you’re going to do today: eat, sleep, poop, go outside, kill small animals, come inside, get pets and cuddles, and then start the cycle of eat, sleep, and poop, all over again.

Bill howl-meowed again, and if Bud could understand the sophisticated language of feline meows, he would have heard Bill’s response: Hey, it’s a busy fucking day! So get your ass in gear monkey man and get on with the start of my routine of eating, sleeping, pooping, going outside, killing small animals, coming inside, and getting pets and cuddles routine with my tuna-dolphin breakfast already. Yeah, you lazy fucking prime ape.

Kate laughed at the exchange between her boyfriend and their cat. After a pause, she said, Um first, I think I’ll go shopping. Then I think I’ll make some more candles.

That’s probably a good idea. I think we’re starting to get low. You want to come have a shower with me? Bud asked.

Sure, Kate said and yawned with a smile. But you better feed Bill first, she added before throwing up her arms for a second stretch before getting out of bed.

Reunion

One week earlier, Bud had waited, standing in the terminal of the regional airport for his cousin Arewood, who was visiting from Ontario. Arewood was in his early twenties and stood six-four. He was ripped with muscles, his cold blue eyes were assertive, and he wore his straight blonde hair long.

Bud quickly spotted his cousin as people started to funnel out of the gate and waved. Arewood walked over to him and gave him a hug.

Hey, what’s happening, cuz? Arewood asked with a smile.

Not too much man. Welcome to British Columbia. How was your flight?

Oh, well I got reacquainted with Jesus a few times, eh. Bouncing around in turbulence in one of those flying tubes we call airplanes I definitely said a few Hail Mary’s. But other than that it wasn’t bad, Arewood responded.

Let’s get your bag and get out of here, eh cuz, Bud said.

A few minutes later, Bud and Arewood were cruising down the highway in Bud’s 1989 mint 4x4 Toyota van, rolling over hills and passing vibrant green trees, sparkling hypnotic rushing streams and rivers, and ominous boulders and rocks that seemed as old as the earth itself and all manner of other things that make BC supernatural.

Well cousin, I think it’s about time we got stoned, Bud said, pulling out a joint from his black leather jacket pocket. Sparking it up he took a couple of tokes before he passed it to Arewood.

Thanks cousin, Arewood said, taking the joint and having a pull. You aren’t worried about cops?

No, we’re in a police dead zone right now, Bud said. They don’t really patrol this area. And as long as you keep your speed under the limit, you’ll be fine, Bud added with a patronizing smile.

Ten to fifteen stoned, silent, and relaxed minutes passed as they continually passed the joint between the two of them. They continued to cruise down the road with the radio off, listening only to the hum of the road.

So how are things going with you man? You seem a little quiet, Bud asked, pondering the state of his cousin’s mind.

Dude, I’m just stoned and happy to be here with you in BC, Arewood genuinely said. And I’m happy to be away from my fucking job. My boss is such a fucking knob gobbler. I’ve actually thought about killing the fucking asshole. You know not for real or anything, but it’s definitely a fulfilling fantasy, eh.

So why don’t you quit? Come and work for me, Fuck On-Terrible! Fuck, your boss. Live here in BC, the only province that can rightfully say that everything east of the Rockies sucks in comparison, Bud added with a little bravado.

Doing what? Selling scented candles? Arewood gave Bud a dubious look.

And marijuana, Bud said, with a mischievous smile.

Arewood looked as shocked and awed as President George W. Bush must have been when he found no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Are you for real man?

Yeah, the aroma therapy is just a front, Bud said. I mean, don’t get me wrong. We sell a lot of scented candles; it goes hand-in-hand with selling weed. People like to cover up the smell.

That’s brilliant, dude, Arewood added with some wonderment and disbelief.

Bud took the compliment in stride. Yeah, Kate came up with the whole idea. She started making candles and figured she would get a lot more customers to buy her candles if we also sold them weed. But things have been picking up to the point where I could use another guy, and I need a guy I can trust. If you can’t trust family, then who can you trust? So if you want in the outlaw job of marijuana sales man is all yours—unless you fantasize about killing all of your bosses. If that’s the case, I might have to rescind my offer.

Yeah for sure man, that sounds awesome! Arewood exclaimed. Hey, you’re my cousin. I could never kill you. I can’t wait to phone my boss and tell him to go fuck himself. For a long time now Arewood had felt lost, going nowhere and doing nothing, just getting by, working one dead-end shit job after the other and loathing life, but he had an intoxicating feeling that was all going to change. How much would I make? he asked.

I’ll pay you twenty bucks an hour till you can afford to buy in, Bud said.

I’m staying

Arewood paced his new slum of a basement apartment with cell phone in hand. He called his roommate Tad back in Ontario. He heard the robot voice of the voice mail and then left a message after the beep.

Hey Tad, its Arewood, he said. I’m not coming back. I’ve decided to stay in BC, so I’ll send you some cash for next month’s rent. It would be great if you pack all my stuff that will fit into my hockey bag and send it to me. Everything else you can keep, so uh get back to me and we’ll talk soon, Arewood rambled.

A couple of days later Arewood checked his messages and saw that he had a massage from Tad. He listened and laughed at what his former roommate said: Dude, I can’t believe you sold out and moved to the dope capital of the western hemisphere, Brothel Columbia, eh. Anyways I sent your shit. Thanks for all your old shit and the cash. Anyways stay cool. Watch out for bush rats and good luck.

The rules to the game

One week later, Arewood pulled up to Bud’s cabin in a 1998 rusted-out, beat-to-shit, blue Ford Ranger that was new to him. He got out of the small truck, walked up to the door of the cabin, and knocked. Kate soon came to the door.

Hey, what’s happening, Kate.

Hey Arewood, just making some candles. You ready for your first big day? Kate teased.

I think so. I’m pretty pumped. Is that low-life cousin of mine out of bed yet? Arewood asked.

At that same time, Bud came down from the loft. Your low-life cousin is right here, yeah fuck. Bud pecked Kate on her lips and pulled her close. I’ll be back around six-thirty or so. Love yah. Bye.

Love you too, Kate said as Bud and Arewood headed out the door.

As they walked to the van, Bud announced, Let’s go get a coffee at Timmy’s.

* * * * * * *

Bud and Arewood sat on a park bench, drinking what they referred to as their Tim Whore-ton’s coffee and smoking Arewood’s cigarettes.

So the system is pretty easy, eh. I’ll take the orders on my cell phone, then call or text you the info for the drop on your cell, so we’ll just be tag teaming the deliveries more or less, eh, Bud said as he explained the inner workings of his operation,

Sounds cool to me, Arewood said, How many days a week do we work?

We usually work Tuesday to Saturday noon to six-thirty and take Sunday and Monday off. But there are some days that we’ll stagger so you work without me, and I get the day off, and then I work without you, and you get the day off.

Right on. I just can’t believe I’m slinging dope in BC with my cousin!

Yeah, it’s a cool gig, but it’s a dangerous gig too, Bud said. "There are plenty of fucks who get busted every day. There are four real good reasons I’ve never gotten caught or ripped off. The first is that I’ve never dealt from home. The last thing you want as a dope dealer is a bunch of moron stoner fucks showing up at your house at all hours of the day and night, trying to score the herb and pissing off your neighbors.

The second reason is I don’t buy lots of stupid flashy shit. See the car I drive. What I’m trying to say is keep a low profile and stay off the radar. The third reason is I’ve picked good people to deal to and have stayed away from the moron stoner fucks with big mouths who will get you busted or even worse ripped off. Bud’s phone buzzed with a new text. It looks like we have our first call of the day.

What about the fourth reason? You only gave me the first three reasons, questioned Arewood.

Luck man, good luck. I mean, real good fucking luck, eh. Bud laughed.

They both got into the van where Bud reached into the back of the van and grabbed some stuff to give to Arewood.

Oh, let me give you your tools of the trade before we get going. Here’s, your address book—your diploma in aroma therapy—and some business cards and candles, Bud said. Oh and here’s your candle bag. We hide the weed inside the candles. The inside is hollowed out.

He grabbed the wick and with a tug lifted the top of the candle out of the glass jar, producing a hole to stash the stash. Hiding it this way cuts down on the skunk smell, which is half the battle if you get pulled over by the RCMP. If the prick does do a quick search, chances are that he’ll miss it.

Right on dude, Arewood said, taking the new tools of his trade. He giggled after looking at his diploma. Where did you get all this stuff?

Off the Internet. Where else?

It occurred to Arewood as they drove through town that perhaps he was being a bit too giddy. So he decided to ask a serious question. What’s the profit ratio? Like how much do we buy it for and then how much do we sell it for? He thought this question would show his serous resolve.

That’s a good question, said Bud. It varies. I always buy it by the pound from my growers, and a pound can go from fifteen hundred to two thousand bucks. Now we break it up into four different bag sizes: eighths, which I sell for forty bucks, which is a bit steep but if you’re only buying an eighth fuck yeah; quarters, which I sell for sixty bucks; half ounces for a hundred bucks; and full ounces for one hundred eighty bucks. So if I get a good deal on it, I make around seventeen hundred off each pound. I usually sell like three pounds a month. So I make around five grand a month, give or take. And that’s not even including the candles, Bud chuckled. Hey, could I bum another smoke off yah cuz?

Yeah, sure, Arewood said, handing him a smoke, He grabbed another one for himself and lit it. And how many clients do you have? Arewood asked.

I got like a hundred and sixty-nine stops that I deliver to. The other thing you got to remember are lots of times the people we are selling to are also buying for their friends, which is a major bonus for us, eh, Bud said.

2

The Rippers

Lee and Roy, more commonly and infamously known as the Brown brothers, were in their early thirties, stood six-two and were big tubby, but tough bastards with weathered skin, sandy brown thinning hair, and soulless blackish, brown eyes. They were a breed of human British Columbians referred to as bush rats. They were hillbilly boys whose parents were at the very least second cousins, if not first cousins. Every town in BC has a population of these degenerates, whose main objective in life was to cause shit, drink, fight, fuck, toke, snort coke, pump steroids, go four-by-fouring, ride ATV’s in the summer-snowmobiles in the winter, and of course kill ungulates and whatever other small fury or feathered creature that came into their gun sights. Although many people often looked down on the likes of bush rats, one had to respect their lust for life and utter disregard for society’s institutionalized behaviors and morals. They abided by their own creed.

Although Lee and Roy were ignorant and unsophisticated, they were by no means stupid. They had spent their entire lives in the BC wilderness, and they knew how to move through the bush undetected. The other uncanny ability bush rats seemed to possess was the ability never to get lost while in the bush, which made the Brown brother’s predators to be feared and respected, if you were an outdoor, bush grower, such as Wild Man.

The Brown brothers packed 12-gauge, double-barreled, sawed-off shotguns. They packed the shells with rock salt because if they had to shoot someone, it wouldn’t kill them. It would just cause them a great deal of pain and incapacitate them. This was based upon the convoluted logic of thought that if they were ever busted their lawyers would be able to get them a reduced sentence because they never intended to kill anyone because the shells were filled with rock salt and not enough gun powder to do any serious injury. They had watched enough Law and Order to know that crime was based on intent. Also if they were caught with just the guns, they could claim that they only had them to ward off bears, which actually wasn’t a lie.

Lee and Roy, and their sidekick, Trips, a skinny, short, pock-marked weasel-like guy with yellow eyes and hair, were sitting on a ridge in the wilds of the back country mountains watching Wild Man harvest his crop. They had been watching him for about a month now. And today looked like the day that he was going to have all of his plants hacked up and ready for transport out of the bush, which was good because Roy was tired of waiting. He had suggested to his brother that they should just go down there, stick their shotguns in the hippie’s face, tie him up, and just harvest the fucking crop themselves. But no, his lazy-ass, bully brother had said. They were going to let the fucking hippie freak do the work.

We ain’t hunting duck, and we ain’t hunting buck. We’re hunting that tasty, sweet, red-haired bitch Mary Jane, the most hard to find game, Lee said with a hearty laugh as he looked through his binoculars at the man at work.

And when we get our prey, we get our pay, Trips piped in, not wanting to be left out of the rhyming game.

It’s time to go get our pay, affirmed Lee with a laugh.

About fucking time, Roy seethed, being now more annoyed at the verbal diarrhea spewing from their mouths than he was at having to wait. Fucking poetry is fucking gay. Are these two going homo queer, on me? He thought to himself bitterly.

Trips, Lee, and Roy made their way to the ambush site and took their positions in the thick brush. They all wore sunglasses with tied-back black T-shirts over their faces that looked like ninja masks. The plan was simple: Roy and Lee would jump out with the shotguns, and then Trips would run in and tie him up. And through the trees they saw him coming, pulling his wagon full of herb, and singing What a Wonderful World.

3

The Clients

The Cougar

Bud and Arewood pulled up outside Farrell’s shack of an old house, got out of the van, and stood outside Farrell’s door, which was painted with frogs and flowers. This girl Farrell is a real good-looking hippie artist chick, and she’s totally wild, dude, Bud said as he knocked on the door.

Farrell who was in her late twenties opened the door. She was about five-six with a slim and trim figure, an overabundance of sandy brown, crazy, curly hair, and deep, warm, brown eyes. Hey how’s it going? Come on in. she said, welcoming them inside.

Bud introduced them