It was a warm and breezy Friday night and Mark was riding his bike home after a particularly long day at work. He’d been working for the past 13 hours with only an hour lunch break, which he used to score a half ounce of some amazing Blueberry Indica from his dealer, Slim, who was heading out of town for the weekend. Mark didn’t want to chase down some less dependable hookup so he sacrificed the hour he’d normally use to just relax to score enough weed for the weekend, since he was going to be hiking up to the waterfalls the next day with his girlfriend.

Despite being exhausted, things were looking good and Mark was in a great mood. He decided to pull off to the side of the road and take out his vape and just chill for a minute. He took a deep hit and despite it being a leftover hit from lunch, it still had a fruity taste and the hit got him nice and high. He decided he was going to kill what was left and pack it again, put on his headphones to check out some new music and just relax before heading home.

“Life is good,” Mark said to himself.

Mark took a few more hits and then emptied the chamber. He took out his grinder and bag and began preparing some fresh bud to vape, when suddenly, a black limo pulled up beside him, and the window closest to the back of the car rolled down.

“That’s illegal in this town kid” yelled the passenger in the car, who he couldn’t quite see, and who he quickly told to fuck right off.

“You’ve got a bad attitude, kid,” said the man, at which point the two middle doors of the limo, which had 4 doors on each side, opened, and two big meathead bodyguard types came out of the limo. One of them came up and grabbed Mark as the other one grabbed Mark’s vape and the bag of weed and threw both in a nearby storm drain. The guy who was holding him threw Mark to the ground and as he lay there, and the meatheads got back in the limo, the car inched up so that the man in the back, who had yelled at him earlier, was now clearly in view.

It was Donald Trump, America’s biggest asshole, who was, unfortunately, its president. “Take your drugs and your gangs back to Mexico, loser. This is Trump’s country, and Trump always wins,” Trump, yelled, seemingly incensed by Mark’s olive colored skin, which had never even felt the Mexican sun, Mark having been born in Peru but an American since birth since both his parents are second generation Peruvian-Americans. The limo drove off.

Mark was completely bummed out. Not only was he out of weed, with no decent hookup and without the ability to even afford to buy more, but his vaporizer, which he had only recently paid almost 300 bucks for, was gone as well. He didn’t even have it on him to ride his bike, so he was sullenly pushing it down the street, his head down, a defeated man, humiliated and victimized by that awful clown, Donald Trump.

At this point, Mark looked up and he thought maybe he bumped his head too hard when Trump’s goons roughed him up. He saw something hovering in the air and moving toward him. As it approached, he saw it was a man riding a carpet; a man dressed in a colorful hemp robe, with two little sloths by his side, and it seemed far too real to be a hallucination. “Holy shit, could it be…” Mark thought, wondering if he was being visited by the legendary Sativa Claus, “It’s not like there are a whole lot of other guys out there riding carpets.”

Sativa landed a few feet from Mark.

“Hey are you alright, dude? I saw the way those guys roughed you up. Fucking Trump. I hate that asshole. Sorry I didn’t make it in time to stop them. I was dealing with a bullshit DEA raid in upstate New York.”

“Yeah, I’m okay, just a little bummed. It’s cool to meet you, Sativa. I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”

“No problem. I’m here to help. I got a nice ounce of some killer Lemon Haze for you. Really dank shit with a heavy citrus flavor. I also saw that about your vape. I have an extra one. You can have that too.”

“Man, you’re the best, Sativa. Thank you so much. You saved my weekend.”

“I’m always happy to help. But there’s more work to do, so I gotta run. Tell your friends you saw me. And as for that Trump piece of shit, well stay tuned. I have some plans for that asshole.”

Sativa hopped back on the carpet and flew away. Tokey and Smokey, the sloths, waved goodbye to Mark as they flew off into the clear, dark night sky, on their way to help some poor cannabis enthusiast somewhere who finds him or herself in a jam, because that is what they do.


Donald Trump’s massive ego is a logistical nightmare in terms of global transportation, so he had a special blimp constructed that could house his monstrously inflated sense of self. He even sued the Oxford English Dictionary to have the word ‘blump’ included in their latest addition, as though his aircraft is not much more than a high-tech blimp, he finds it personally insulting when anyone refers to it that way. Unsurprisingly, Trump thinks the aforementioned portmanteau, simply and obviously constructed by combining ‘blimp’ and ‘Trump’, is itself a work of staggering genius. There is, in only a partially literal sense, no shit this guy takes that he can’t delusionally turn to gold in his mind.

The blimp (I refuse to use blump) was cruising at a high altitude over the midwestern United States when Trump ordered his crew to turn around and head back to the White House.

“We need to head back now. Sativa Claus just foiled a DEA raid on a grow operation I need killed. This is the last time. He’s dead. I’m gonna kill that loser.” Trump told his henchmen.

Ostensibly, Donald Trump does not oppose cannabis. He’s had his greedy hand in the cannabis business for decades as a secret investor. As President, he basically uses the DEA as another in a long list of tools he employs to destroy his competitors and anyone else who gets in the way of his schemes, and so publicly he remains a staunch opponent of the movement toward cannabis legalization.

In the most recent case, a grower out of Mendocino County, California, who refused to play by the Trump syndicate’s rules, was targeted for destruction. It was to be a fairly simple, by-the-book operation, with Trump’s goons in the DEA surrounding and then infiltrating the building, killing all of its occupants, framing them as the aggressors, and confiscating the goods. The grow operation in question was Trump’s chief competitor in the San Francisco Bay Area and had recently begun a highly public campaign of questioning the veracity of the claims made by Cannatlantic, the company Trump secretly runs, that their weed is unadulterated. Suspicions have been growing for a while now that some unknown chemical or genetic modification, so far undetected, is causing people to have strange reactions that they never have when they use cannabis from any other supplier.

The plans were foiled, however, by Sativa Claus. Stoned out of his gourd on some mango bread edibles, having ingested about 5 grams of Hash in the mango bread alone, and vaping consistently, Sativa was feeling even more clairvoyant than usual as he sat and meditated on a tree limb high off the ground, deep in his secret home in a dense, rarely explored part of a Peruvian jungle, so he knew what was going on with more than enough warning to unroll the carpet, wake up Tokey and Smokey, and head to California to kick some DEA ass.

The scene when Sativa and the sloths arrived was madness. Still watching from the carpet above, they saw through various windows that the DEA thugs had infiltrated the house and were roughing everyone up, starting to destroy the plants. There were at least 30 DEA agents so Sativa knew it would have to be a quick and decisive attack to prevent any further destruction.

Sativa had with him a few of his DMT grenades. A DMT grenade is basically a small handheld bomb, a grenade, except instead of filled with explosives, it’s filled with DMT. Anyone within several yards of a DMT grenade having been set off will within a few short moments be tripping their brains out, rolling around on the floor or ground completely blissed out and at peace with everything. Sativa handed two grenades each to Tokey and Smokey and grabbed two for himself, with a half dozen or so remaining in his pocket, and immediately began descending swiftly toward the huge bay window at the front of the house. Before impact with the window, Sativa picked up the front of the carpet and raised it in front and over the head of himself and the sloths, creating a shield from the shards of glass.

They crashed through the glass and were in the midst of DEA gunfire within seconds. There was no time to waste and Sativa and the sloths threw their grenades in every direction and in various corners of the house. The DMT was starting to proliferate in the air. DEA agents were turning into rolling, giggling messes – corporeal entities only by default, now completely ensconced in a DMT mind fuck. Sativa and the sloths, of course, were also being exposed. However, their learned shamanic expertise traversing DMT realms allowed them to function intently and effectively and soon they were the only ones in the house not completely geeked out on psychedelics. Of course, DMT wears off fairly quickly, so they wasted no time in de-weaponizing and tying up the DEA goons so that they wouldn’t be an issue when they came back to reality.

The growers thanked Sativa and said they’d carry all the agents out to the trucks and drop them off somewhere. Sativa hooked them up with a little something from his personal stash and he and the sloths went on their way, back to their secret jungle sanctuary deep in a secret valley in a mountainous region of Peru.


Trump and his inner circle of advisors and guys who get things done were sitting around the Oval Office trying to devise some kind of scheme to get rid of Sativa Claus once and for all. They knew the only way to get him would be to set a trap, catch Sativa off guard and then just kill him on the spot to get it over with. One of Trump’s henchmen suggested they organize a federal raid on Compassionate Cannlabs, a charity organization in California that conducts research into the medical benefits of cannabis. They create and grow radical strains, focus on clean and efficient extraction methods, and provide support for terminally ill people who use cannabis for relief. Typically, the feds leave these types of organizations alone, but this would be a perfect front for a staged attack against Sativa. They’d just carefully leak news of the raid through counter-intelligent ops they had working in the field and without a doubt Sativa would show up.

The discussion then turned to just how they’d manage to capture Sativa once they had him. No one in the room could think of anything right then and there that would be guaranteed to work against Sativa. Truth is, it’s hard to know what Sativa is capable of. His powers have never been fully tested.

“This guy is good and we can’t have this go wrong. If we don’t get him this time we may never get another chance. I need ideas from each of you by the time I get back” Trump told them, as he left the room on his way to a meeting with the CEO of a large weapons manufacturer.

Trump arrived at the CEO’s mansion in Bradley Manor just in time for the nightly flogging of a poor person that the CEO so enjoys. Trump was elated as the pain he inflicts on poor people must now be done mostly at a distance, via acts of war and executive order, and thus far removed from the pure joy of participating directly in the meting out of the abuse, and there’s nothing that brings Trump more pleasure than abusing and humiliating poor people.

Randall C. Chester IV, the ‘C’ stands for Cornelius, has been the CEO of his father’s company since the old man passed away at the end of the Clinton administration, and has done a great job building upon his father’s success as an arms manufacturer by not only crafting some of the finest instruments of death and destruction on the planet, but by helping to make sure that perpetual war was not only the official policy of the USA, but a reality so deeply woven into the fabric of the country’s existence that its cessation was economically, politically, and socially implausible. A proud co-architect of the military industrial complex as it exists today in such a monstrous form, Chester and his Chester Industries are committed to destroying our world with their violent capitalist greed and endless, imperialist march toward war. Trump loves the guy.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do about Sativa Claus, Randy. He’s been a problem for too long. I need to get rid of him. What do you think?”

They were sitting in a cavernous room in Chester’s mansion. There were all kinds of stuffed exotic animal heads on the walls, towers of books, expensive ornaments of various kinds, a model ship, of course; typical rich people bullshit.

“Well Donald, it’s not going to be easy, and I think you need to go in with not one but multiple backup plans. You need to be prepared, and your initial hit has to be quick and devastating. I might have something that could help. Follow me.”

Chester led Trump down a hall lined with painted portraits of members of the Chester family, then down some stairs into a basement room filled with computers and various other pieces of equipment, some of which looked pretty exotic to Trump.

“I’m going to conference us in with the guys over at one of my labs in Alaska. Buried in the ice. They do some wild stuff up there, and these guys were telling me about something that may be of use to you against Sativa Claus. It would be beneficial to us because we’d get to test it out. It’s some kind of sonic hypnosis engine. It might be just the thing to stun Sativa for long enough to contain him.”

A giant screen descended from the ceiling. Randall C. Chester began typing something into a laptop and within seconds he was live with the Alaskan lab. Only one scientist was there.

“Hello, Steven. I have President Trump with me. I’d like you to explain the engine to him.”

Steven Shixelfitz was the lead scientist at the lab and the one who originated the basic concept of the sonic hypnosis engine.

“I’d be honored. Hello, Mr. President. I voted for you.”

“Of course you did. My wars pay your salary.”

The three men laughed at Trump’s joke; Trump laughed the hardest.

“Well, Mr. President, the sonic hypnosis engine is capable of producing sound waves in such a way that we can hypnotize people from lengths of up to 50 yards away. The sound waves trigger the brain in such a manner that the subject will be hypnotized, kind of knocked out, delirious and susceptible to suggestion. We’ve tested it extensively in the lab with one another and with a handful of visitors. It’s extremely powerful.”

“So do you think it will work on Sativa Claus?”

“That I can’t say. My guess is that it would, but I really don’t know.”

“I’m sold. At the very least, Randy, like you said it’s a plan ‘A’ and I’ll have backup plans. My people are the smartest people on Earth and they’ll come up with something. But, if this works, I’ll have that jerk out of the picture once and for all. I’ll have my people call your people to sort out the details. Nobody fucks with the Donald.”

It wasn’t long before Sativa got word that the raid was being planned. Sativa was disgusted that they’d be raiding an organization whose only goal is to help people. But then, this was not only the federal government, but Trump’s federal government – basically a goon squad for the oligarchy. It wasn’t a surprise, just so, so awful, and Sativa knew he had to stop it. He only had about a day to prepare. Sativa’s psychic powers, unfortunately, were prevented from seeing into Trump’s plans as they are repulsed by Trump’s severely unchill aura, which creates a murky fog that Sativa’s powers can not penetrate. Anything Trump is involved in is surrounded by this fog – some kind of weird, hostile, confusing stew of psychic torment that just will not allow the universal consciousness from whence Sativa’s powers derive to enter and provide nourishment.

Even regardless of Trump’s ulterior motives, Sativa envisioned this being a tricky situation and one for which he was going to have to prepare for the very worst. He knew what kind of sick and contemptible governmental strong-armed depravity Trump was capable of. He knew this could get ugly. Very ugly.

At the White House, Trump was meeting with Randall C. Chester and Agamemnon Krupp, the head of the DEA. By now all the details had been carefully worked out, and the plan looked so good on paper that there was already a celebratory mood in the air. Krupp, less brazen and egomaniacal than the two billionaires in the room, cautioned that they should avoid becoming overconfident and that they really don’t know the full extent of their enemies capabilities, but Trump told him it was nonsense and that there was no way the plan wouldn’t work.

“Tomorrow’s the day. All there is to do now is to wait,” Trump told them, self-assured and fully confident that Sativa Claus would finally cease to be a thorn in his proverbial side sometime within the next 24 hours.

Sativa decided to head out very early the day of the raid so he could find a distant spot to scope the lay of the land before the raid began. He decided to leave the sloths at home, as he sensed this particular battle was going to be dangerous, and though he could use their help, they can be slow and clumsy sometimes and could also be a detriment if they’re injured or caught; that, and they’re safer at home.

To prepare himself mentally, Sativa began a deep meditation session to clear his mind and focus. It lasted a little over an hour, but the outcome was highly beneficial, as Sativa felt extremely at ease, despite the troubles that lie ahead. Feeling good, but knowing he needed a good store of energy, Sativa had a delicious breakfast of sauteed plantains and sweet potatoes and an egg fried in cannabis infused coconut oil. As soon as he was done, he grabbed his stash of weapons he’d gathered the night before, prepared the carpet and headed out toward California and the site of the day’s main event.

The sloths were still sleeping soundly in their beds, exhausted from having the night before participated in an Ayahuasca ceremony with a mysterious but friendly Shaman who roams the forest and occasionally stops by to say hello. They don’t know where or even if he sleeps, and he claims he doesn’t have a name, and if he ever did have one it’s been long forgotten. He’s not Peruvian. His accent is kind of Eastern European and he’s fluent in Russian, but he speaks perfect English and Spanish and can converse in a number of the Peruvian native languages, including Quechua, Aymara, and a lost tribal language with no other known living speaker, which is the one he uses to perform his Ayahuasca ceremonies. It’s interesting, because once you start to understand what he’s saying, you know you’re under the spell, and then it hits you. He was meditating in the grass when Sativa went outside. Sativa told him what was going on and told him to tell the sloths not to worry.

Sativa was making great time and he was so entranced by the beautiful view from above the Earth that when he finally arrived at Compassionate Cannalabs it seemed like an extremely short time had elapsed. Sativa hovered overhead looking for somewhere he could take cover and just observe for a while. He saw a rocky cliff a hundred or so yards from the lab and he landed the flying carpet. He took a few puffs on his vape to decompress from the trip and got comfortable. Judging by the sun he had plenty of time. Sativa doesn’t carry with him any form of clock.

A few hours passed and Sativa just kept thinking about what an awful piece of trash Donald Trump is. But it’s not just Trump; there are plenty of rich and not-so-rich people too who think profits and power are more important than human life and even more important than the life and health of this plant; this sacred planet that they too call home, but which they treat more like a garbage dump. In the midst of one of these thoughts, Sativa heard the DEA vehicles pulling up from a distance. The lab was situated in a fairly remote area, a large field far from the highway, so when a convoy of all terrain vehicles comes racing in, it is easy to hear the sounds which reverberate over the valley. Sativa began to prepare his secret weapon, the shroomerang. The shroomerang is a boomerang type device that continuously shoots out streams of pure psilocybin along with an organic compound Sativa extracts from an unnamed plant in the jungle which Sativa calls “the quick stuff” which somehow instantly activates the effects of the psilocybin in anyone who ingests the two at the same time. It works with mescaline too. The shroomerang is also equipped with heat-guided censors and has been imbued with a certain ‘magical’ quality so that once it’s thrown it will not completely return to the skilled thrower until he or she flicks the wrist in such a manner as to convey to the shroomerang that it’s time to return. This is advanced Shamanic engineering at its finest.

Sativa sat on the carpet and began flying toward the lab when suddenly he began to feel a bit dizzy, unfocused, and a bit confused, and the last thing he remembers the carpet started falling and he no longer had control, and then everything went black.

The sloths awoke to wonder where Sativa had gone. They typically wake up earlier than Sativa but this time he was gone and they noticed the carpet was missing. They went outside and the Shaman told them about Sativa’s plans and tried telling them not to worry, to no avail. The sloths had a terrible feeling for some reason and were not the type to betray their instincts. They knew they had to do something.

Half way up the side of a medium sized mountain, and maybe only a half mile or so from Sativa’s farm, is the den, well, one of the many dens sprinkled all over the globe, of Sativa’s oldest friend, the one and only 420 Bunny.

The Sloths decided to make their way quickly to 420 Bunny’s Den because they knew he was there just the other day, getting completely stoned, and was very unlikely to have headed anywhere else. Quick is difficult for sloths so they asked the Shaman if he could ride Sativa’s bike and they’d hitch a ride in the basket on the back. He agreed, but not up the mountain, even though there was a path. That was fine, because these sloths can climb rather quickly, and could signal 420 from only a short way up.

The ride on the bike traversed some fairly well-cleared paths through an otherwise dense, wet jungle. They arrived in less than ten minutes and the sloths started climbing their way up the trees. The Shaman observed the strangeness of how quickly these sloths could ascend through the trees and wondered where they developed such prowess, such sly acrobatic aptitude through the trees, climbing a mountain.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,” Tokey yelled from atop a pepper tree some ways up the mountain, prompting the 420 Bunny to jump up from the floor where he was getting ready to take a bong rip.

“Hey, guys, what’s up? I’ll be right down,” the bunny yelled, and he began a quick descent down the hill. The sloths started moving down the tree to meet him.

“What’s going on guys, you seem worried.”

“Sativa went to California to stop a DEA raid without telling us. We have a bad feeling about this one. I think we should get up there in case he’s in trouble,” Smokey explained, Tokey nodding along.

“I’m sure he’s okay but it’s not really like him to leave on his own like that, so I have to admit it’s concerning. Hold onto my back and we’ll head up to the den and get supplies. My plane’s on a plateau up in the mountains. We’ll take that to the raid. You know where he’s at?”

“The Shaman said it was Compassionate Cannalabs, just outside Sebastopol,” and the sloths jumped on the bunny’s back and he started hopping back to his den.

By the time Sativa awoke, Trump had arrived at the scene. He was standing there smiling at Sativa, who found himself sitting behind bars, in a cage, his hands tied behind his back and a gag on his mouth.

“Hello Sativa, looks like you lose you piece of shit. I could have had you killed but I wanted you to know who did it. I wanted you to die knowing you lost to Trump, ass hole,” a proudly confident Trump gleefully yelled. But, his confidence would soon turn to overconfidence, as a sound began to emerge, and from due southwest, there appeared in the sky a small airplane coming directly toward them.

One of Trump’s DEA goons actually had a rocket launcher, and as the plane approached he tried to shoot it down, but the pilot easily evaded the slow-moving rocket and as the plane approached directly overhead, it dropped a giant colored egg upon them, decorated with psychedelic designs.

The plane was piloted by none other than the 420 Bunny and passengered by the two sloths, who were dropping down behind the giant egg equipped with parachutes. The egg landed and exploded and about 1000 little bunnies jumped out, bunnies with fangs – cute and cuddly, yes, but with big fucking fangs meant for tearing enemies apart. The bunnies were too numerous, too quick, and their slashing bites too painful for Trump or his DEA assholes to do anything. By the time the sloths landed, Trump and his thugs were already halfway defeated, so when the sloths unleashed a combo DMT grenade and scopolamine canon attack, it was the final blow to Trump’s plans. Trump had lost.

Tokey found the keys to Sativa’s cage and unlocked the door. He and Smokey untied Sativa and removed the gag from over his mouth. By this point Trump and the DEA goons were a complete rolling mess on the ground, laughing and crying out gibberish, barely cognizant at this point of the reality of their situation. It was a beautiful sight. Soon, Trump would fully realize the extent of his failure, but for now, he was too blissed out to care about anything that can be adequately described via the banality of language.

Sativa thanked the sloths and overlooked the scene. Before he left, Sativa walked up to Trump, looked him squarely in the eye, and for a brief moment, Trump, despite his being stoned out of his gourd on two extremely high doses of powerful mind-altering drugs, was hypnotically transfixed, and something in his eyes made it seem like he understood what Sativa was telling him. Perhaps this was the doing of the scopolamine.

“I truly hope that one day, maybe today, but probably not, but someday, that the reality of the devastation that your behavior causes will come crashing down upon you, the weight of its psychic torment so heavy that it renders you incapacitated, unable to even breathe more than a gasping, wisping, nearly lifeless breath, thereby crippling your soul; but until that vivid moment of self reflection finally does come, or if it never does, you should know that I will do everything in my power to make sure that you fail, that you lose, and that you are not a happy man,” Sativa vowed, and with that made his exit from the absurd scene and he and the sloths made their way toward the adjacent field where the 420 Bunny was waiting with his airplane to take them back to Peru, and big fat joint in his hand, to celebrate their victory on the ride home.


“Sativa Claus Vs. Donald Trump”

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