Two Pounds

By Craig Howg

It's the summer of 2002.. the 911 attacks of the autumn prior have most of North America, if not the world, concerned for their safety. That is, except for a group of young, dope smokin' Canadians who have to face their own repercussions of the now unleashed "War of Terror". Join a unique caste of characters through a toke-fueled, meaningful, exciting adventure as they wind their way through a story that is "hard to put down"...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257302758

Book preview

12

Chapter 1

Hey, Abby! - Get in here quick! We’re being freakin’ invaded! Kris hollered from the modified back room of their mobile home. As Abby was dutifully navigating her way through their cluttered, narrow hallway she remained blissful despite Kris’s apparent urgency; she had smoked three joints and a bowl of hash through the day already. Her thoughts were alternating between scenes of episodes of the Simpsons and which would taste better - more Zesty Doritos or maybe that box of frozen Eskimo Pies in the fridge.

Blinding yellow-white light greeted Abby as she entered the back room and pulled open the reflective poly sheeting. Look at the little bastards; they’re everywhere! Kris desperately croaked. Immediately, Abby dejectedly recognized the source of Kris’ torment. She allowed an audible sigh to pass through her cute, full lips. I’ll get the bug juice. she reported and went to the closet where they kept all the horticulture supplies. She returned with a large, pressurized container of continually evolving organic insecticide potion of Kris’ design. As Kris was aggressively spraying the ‘bug juice’ concoction about the room Abby was wondering how much of their precious marijuana bud the spider mites had consumed this time; that, and grinning to herself about the time Homer Simpson and Barney Gumbel competed to be astronauts.

Abby had already assumed her position in front of the television and had begun assembling a strange looking sandwich in which she had inserted several Doritos edgewise throughout an Eskimo Pie. Her mouth was stretched to the limit as she attempted to take a bite, when Kris entered. You know, A.B., (Kris pronounced Abby’s name as if it sounded that way - A.B. - he thought it kinda funny, Abby thought he had a minor speech impediment) Ya know, if it’s not one thing, it’s a freakin’ nuther. Kris muttered about his weed growing enterprise. When we first cloned our last little bunch of girls I thought for sure we’d get 10 to 12 pounds of prime B.C. bud. If it’s not bugs, it’s too much heat, too little heat, too much fertilizer, too freakin’ little fertilizer, humidity,…too many things can screw us up, baby. Kris seemed to be apologizing too his little sweetheart of a young lady. Hey, babe, we’ll be lucky if we get five now. offered Kris

Having explained affairs to Abby whom was now watching a rerun of Happy Days on the tube but remembering the time when Krusty’s former sidekick, Sideshow Bob, was the mayor of Springfield, Kris now turned his attention to rolling a ‘fatty’ for him and A.B. to smoke. He was also noticing how well Abby filled her jeans. He completed his joint, admired it for a while commending himself for his skill and lighting it, he inhaled very, very deeply. He exhaled harshly, spittle and smoke spraying from his mouth as it became more of a cough or near vomit. Yet with crossed, watering eyes Kris repeated the deep inhalation of his favorite herb.

Handing the reefer to Abby, Kris now noticed how he could see the alabaster globes of her youthful, a little-more-than-a-handful breasts peeking out through the top of her too-small lift bra. Kris hadn’t had it for a bit. Thinking of course it would be a logical way to get Abby interested, he reached down to his own fly to release with surprise and glee to the excited eyes of his beloved - his one-eyed monster. Kris unzipped and was digging in the tangle of his tight jeans, erection, and loose boxers when Abby got up, heading to the kitchen wondering what she could do with a can of Dream Whip, a partial bag of chocolate chips and a jar of olives.

Harvest Day! Fourteen weeks had passed since Kris and Abby had first cloned their latest batch of wonder weed. This was their fourth crop and again, though not through lack of trying, it was obvious that prior expectations were not going to be met. Although it was apparent that Kris and Abby were never going to make the big money they had always heard was available in the business, they were still excited like it was Christmas morning. Their crops did pay the bills and provide them with smoke-dope. They also enjoyed the Zen of raising little seedlings into full-fledged, resin encrusted bud trees.

Have you seen the clippers?’ Kris again yelling from the back of their trailer to Abby parked out on the sofa. Where’s the freakin’ drying screen at, baby? I can’t find the extension cord either. Babe, could you please come here and give me a hand?" Kris enjoyed just having Abby around when he was working to give him validation and keep him company. He was always asking her where this or that is, or just trying to get her involved in any way. To Abby, it didn’t much matter what room she was in, where she was at, or whom she was with. She brought her t.v. with her in her head, wherever she went.

The two began cutting down the fruits of their labor then stripping off all the foliage and leaving the ripe buds on the stalks to hang and cure. In about a week the crop would be dry and be ready to bag and market. The sweet, skunky smell of weed permeated not only their home but half the trailer park, which really didn’t matter much as two out of every three trailers in the park had grow-ops of varying size and sophistication.

A contented smile crossed the face of Abby as she watched Kris bagging and weighing their harvest. Joint for your thoughts. Kris said to Abby, hoping to provoke some conversation with his seemingly so serene girlfriend. No response. What’s on yer mind, babe? implored Kris. Say sumthin, A.B. Abby shifted her stare from task at hand to the eyes of her man. Did I hear joint? she asked. Kris, shaking his head and again taking note of her cute little figure, proceeded to roll another ‘gagger’ for their pleasure and tried this angle: Well, maybe we don’t got no five pounds but you can be sure there is a mini-freakin-mum of two or better, babe. I’m gonna call Dude. Ask him to get ready to make the trip this weekend. Two ain’t bad babe, wait till next chop, I’ve got ten more babies started this time and Dude told me about a new formula for those little bud suckin’ mites.

Hoping to arouse Abby through the subtle art of hinting, Kris then said something about smoking more joints and getting naked. Although Abby wasn’t really present to the moment, something must have worked, for Kris was going to finally receive the crotchal attention he was looking for. Abby had regrets though. Seems her stoner boyfriend didn’t wash the harvest resin from his fingers and in their moment of intimate foreplay, Abby’s nether-region became very, very hot and bothered. The close of Harvest Day saw Kris nursing a sore, swollen set of balls while Abby sat gritting her teeth, in a tub of warm water and milk, trying to relieve the burning itch centered around her genital area.

Hey, Dude, spoke Kris into the phone, you figure your car will make the trip again? I got two of the sweetest little packages you’ve ever seen, bro’, just waitin’ to go. (The final and triumphantly announced by Kris amount was one thousand and nineteen grams, or 2 lbs., 2 oz. and 11 grams!) Kris and Abby’s crop now all dry, cured and bagged was ready for market. As usual, Jonesy, Kris’ old buddy from two rows and four trailers down whom has dealer connections throughout the West, was contacted to help with the distribution of the fine ganja herb.

Jonesy, of Pakistani heritage, is a tall, dark, seldom speaking, cool-type guy who is always there for Kris and Abby. His association with Kris goes back a long way; both from small prairie towns, they met while working as roughnecks in the Alberta oil patch when they were seventeen. Kris was in the ‘patch’ for the quick, big buck to help satisfy his boss; his pecker. Jonesy had a goal in mind: to make enough money to move to the coastal mountains of Western Canada. Once there, he would build a cabin in the forest, grow weed and just sit back and chill in the bosom of mom nature. However, having arrived in beautiful British Columbia nine years ago and still not realizing his dream, (his trailer, though neater, was smaller than Kris and Abby’s) Jonesy would sometimes be brought down and have the almost always present twinkle in his eyes removed. Abby enjoyed Jonsey’s visits, too. They both shared a passion for the Simpsons and Abby would squeal with laughter at Jonesy’s impressions of Apu.

Jonsey came over to pick up the valuable crop; five grand being Kris and Abby’s end and Jonsey stood to make a couple of thousand easy, depending on how he marketed it. With only a little better than two ounces of bud to last him till next crop, Abby knew even with rationing they would have to process some oil or produce hash from their harvest ‘shake’ to supply the necessary ‘wattage’ to power her head TV. Kris was in the back transplanting his new young ladies into larger pots and Abby was at her perch grinning about…something, when Jonesy knocked. He rapped the door four or five times - no answer, just television noise. He knocked again, hesitated, then walked through the unlocked, front door.

Hey Abby. Jonesy said to a non-responsive female who was now digging in her belly button for a lost Skittles candy. Jonsey clapped his hands together twice loudly to gain the attention of Abby who had now located her Skittle and was bringing it up to her mouth. She was startled by the noise of his claps and poked herself in the eye with her finger. (She lost her Skittle too.) Hi Abby, Jonesy spoke softly without a hint of his heritage in his diction. How’s the ‘joy of her father’ been keeping? Jonesy knew that the name Abigail meant just that, as he knew trivial tidbits about all whom he considered to be his friends. (He didn’t know her name was just Abby; actually her middle name was Abby - her full name being Angel Abby O’Hare; she was uncomfortable with the first.)

To Jonesy’s pleasure and surprise, Abby reached to the remote and muted the tv (of this dimension) and turned to give her full attention to her guest. Abby could demonstrate moments of profound intelligence but, for the most part, she was considered by some to be perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Jonesy was the type of guy who sincerely appreciated conversation that went beyond the material world and Abby would sometimes indulge him. And, at 23 years old, blessed with a form and a cute type of beauty normally reserved for goddesses of love, Abby’s full attention was a treat for any man who still possessed a heartbeat.

I am far more than fine, sir, and my world just now became somehow more relevant since Mr. Jones entered our humble dwelling, Abby spoke evenly, and yet, because she actually couldn’t help it, she sounded very sexy and flirtatious no matter what words issued forth from her Eskimo Pie hole. Even Jonesy, probably Kris’ closest friend/associate, found Abby’s allure hard to dismiss. And may I inquire as to the well-being of my eyes delight? she asked politely. Abby’s left eye was watering and red from the finger poking it received in the misplaced Skittle mishap; distracting Jonesy from the intent of her words. It looks a little sore to me; here - maybe you could put some of this in your eye. Jonesy said as he reached into an inside pocket of his loose-fitting coat, producing a petite bottle of homeopathic eye drops.

That’s another thing about Jonesy - mention a need - reefer wrappers, scissors, pipe, Kleenex, condom, knife, food, etc. and he’ll reach into one of the many compartments of his oversized coat and offer it. Or, mention an illness - cold, cough, flu, stomach ache, p.m.s, whatever - he’ll know which is the right herbal combination for curing it and