It was a cold December; coldest one in decades, in fact. And the snow, well, the snow was a real pain in the ass for everyone. Exactly around midnight on December 1st it started falling, and it really never let up all month, save for a day here and there; mountains of snow; snow piled on top of snow on top of snow, on top of those few days where it got sunny enough to melt a little, but not too much, and a crispy, crunchy thin crust of ice formed, to be dusted over by more snow later the same day. That’s just life in the mountains sometimes. You get used to it, and if you prepare yourself, it can actually be kind of nice to have those nights and days where you’re stuck inside, just relaxing, enjoying the fact that you really can’t go anywhere, or do much of anything, except chill. This December we’re talking about, though, it was a real son of a bitch. There were more days and nights being stuck inside than there were being able to go on with your life, and everyone was sick of it.
Townington is a lot like other small mountain towns located hours away from the nearest modestly sized city. Tourists make their way here from time to time in the more hospitable months, weather-wise, when they’re looking to get somewhat lost driving through the mountains for a day; but without a ski resort within an hour’s drive, it’s kind of dead in the winter, especially when it’s as bad as was the year in which this story is set. It tends to get a little claustrophobic when the roads are as bad as they’ve been, when no one is willing to take a chance to drive very far at all.
This can make it especially difficult to procure supplies that are not readily available in Townington; supplies such as really good bud. Now, Townington definitely has its share of ‘dealers’, but for the most part they’re charging premium prices for weak mids that don’t even really get you very high if you smoke a whole blunt to your head, especially if you’re a seasoned partaker of the herb who has a high tolerance. If the price were reasonable, it would be one thing, but these guys are charging like 45, even 50 bucks an eighth for weak ass shit that doesn’t even weigh out. It’s ridiculous.
And this is the dilemma that brings us to the tale I’m about to tell. On a particularly cold, wintry night that year, one where the roads were completely covered over, first by a wintry mix of ice and sleet, then by over 2 feet of fresh snow, 3 friends found themselves stuck inside their house, nowhere they could go, the electricity out, with plenty of munchies, but no weed. It was going to be a long night.
The events leading up to their current predicament started out promising enough. The day had given them a rare respite from the usual wintry mess they’d been experiencing the rest of the month, and they took a drive to Greensville, a larger town about an hour and a half away. This was the standard destination for a weed pickup, and this day was no different. Their usual hookup was out of town visiting family, but you could usually go to the park and find something decent. A little more expensive than usual, but better quality than the Townington mids.
Steve drove Bree’s car and Paul sat in the back. They had enough weed between them to smoke a blunt on the way and when they got to Greensville, the first thing they did was stop at Wendy’s, which was a tradition. There is no Wendy’s in Townington, just a Subway, a few pizza shops, a diner, a Mexican place, a Chinese joint called The Emerald Dragon, and two coffee shops and a few bars which also serve food. So, they always made it a point to hit up Wendy’s when in Greensville.
“How can you get a Frosty in the middle of winter?” Paul asked.
“Why did you get a baked potato instead of fries?” Bree, replied.
“Wendy’s fries kinda suck. Baked is better for you anyway. And bacon bits.”
“Baked is definitely better. Let’s go find some drugs before it starts to get dark,” Steve interrupted.
They drove to the park and saw this dreadlocked white guy sitting on a bench.
“Looks promising,” Bree remarked.
“Yeah,” The guys said together.
They were listening to Europe ’72 by the Grateful Dead pretty loudly when they pulled up, which probably gave them a degree of credibility with dreadlock guy. They all got out and said hello, made the customary small talk with the dude and bought an ounce. A little pricey, but really nice buds; Girl Scout Cookies, supposedly, but who ever really knows for sure when you unfortunately live in a state with no dispensaries and don’t know the grower. It’s hard to take some hippie in the park at his word when he tells you what strain he’s selling you, but as long as it looks good, who really cares? It’s the high that counts.
So everything was good. They had weed, it was still light out with enough daylight to get home before dark, with only one more stop to make – the liquor store to buy a pack of blunt wraps. Pina Colada. Everything was going according to plan. Until, it wasn’t.
On the way home they were jammin’ out to some Modest Mouse, high as fuck, when Bree, who took over driving duties, said “oh, shit, a cop.”
“Fuck, what? Fuck…” Steve turned around and saw the blue and red lights in the distance behind them. The road was empty so there’s a good chance he’s after them.
“Roll down the windows. Air this shit out,” Paul said, and they all rolled the windows down.
Sure enough, the cop was after them. They were nervous but knew they had to play calm. The cop approached the car.
“License and registration.”
He looked at the paperwork and leaned in the car.”
“I smell marijuana. You have anything you need to tell me about?”
“No officer,” Replied Bree. “We’re just trying to get home before the storm hits.”
“I’m gonna need you to step outside,” the cop commanded. “All of you.”
They all got out of the car.
“I’m gonna need to search the vehicle. There’s a strong odor of marijuana. I need to search your vehicle.”
“Well, I don’t give you permission to search my vehicle,” Bree defiantly told him.
“Fine, then we’ll just have to do this the hard way. I can have a K9 unit here in about 30 minutes.”
At this point, when the cop briefly turned around, Paul took the opportunity to toss the weed into the woods, as painful as it was to do so. The others saw him toss the bag, and Bree told the cop to go ahead and search.
He searched the car and he searched them, and of course he found nothing. He was determined to find the marijuana, as he knew he smelled it on them, but after what seemed like forever, and which was actually about 25 minutes, he gave up. Pissed, he wrote Bree a bullshit speeding ticket and stormed off like the pathetic little child he is, probably hoping to save his ego by going back into town and harassing someone else for something, hoping for an arrest, sad little man that he is.
The crew drove on, happy they weren’t arrested, but bummed about the weed. The cop waited in his car until they pulled off so they had to drive up the road for a while, and there were no distinctive markers near where they were pulled over, so finding the spot would be difficult, especially because it was snowing somewhat steady by this point and any possible tire markings would be covered. It wasn’t really even worth trying. They were screwed.
* * *
Deep in the jungles of Peru there lives a man, or at least a man-like being of some sort; something of a shaman, but that word merely serves to scratch the surface of who or what he really is. He is a sage, a teacher, a healer, a philosopher, a magician, a true visionary and a pretty chill dude to hang out with, if you’re ever so lucky. His name is Sativa Claus.
Sativa Claus lives on a mystical farm deep in the remotest part of the Peruvian jungle. Some say he is a descendant of a great Inca king, but the truth is that he’s been around far longer than that. In one form or another, Sativa Claus has been around since the dawn of time, since the big bang, perhaps beyond. He is a cosmic entity that has manifested itself in many forms, and his current form is one of the great wonders of our world, though few know he even exists.
Sativa Claus psychically monitors all goings-on in our world that involve Cannabis, and he tries to right as many wrongs as he sees. Though in our world, where governments, police and other forces of evil act in accordance with their desire to control the masses, and punish people who choose to ingest cannabis in whatever way they choose, and for whatever reason they choose, whether it be to heal themselves or just to relax, or enjoy a concert or movie, it is very difficult to right all the wrongs that he finds. He’s magic, but it’s not like he’s some kind of god.
So, if you ever find yourself in need, Sativa Claus may already be working behind the scenes to help you out. If you’re really lucky, and one of the select few, you may even get to meet him.
Sativa Claus has a magic bong he uses which acts like something of a psychic satellite receiver tuning in to all kinds of lame nonsense surrounding people’s decision to use cannabis, and the assholes who try to stop them. Sativa and his bong work pretty hard to right all the wrongs they see, and by taking a few hits of a magic strain Sativa has cultivated, and which must be placed in a magic vaporizer that produces a massive hit, Sativa Claus is able to manipulate time by thinking about it, freeing him from the strict limitations of the 24 hour clock, so that he can help as many people out as he can.
He’s truly a good dude.
Sativa Claus witnessed the entire ordeal that Bree, Steve and Paul went through, as described earlier in this story, and he knew he had to do something to help them out. Now, despite his ability to manipulate time, it is an ability with constraints. He can really only slow down time, and the degrees with which he can accomplish this vary. It’s not an exact science, but he knew he had no time to do anything for them right at that particular moment. He decided he’d just pay them a visit and hook them up with a new strain he’d been developing, which had been giving him weird but cool dreams. He wanted to see if it had the same effect on regular people. He was almost curious to see how his strains worked for others.
Sativa Claus called for his pet sloths, Tokey and Smokey, to grab the magic carpet, as they were heading off for another adventure. This time, to the snow-capped mountains of Wyoming. Townington, to be exact.
They caught some good tailwinds and the ride went quicker than expected. That, coupled with the slowing down of time (at least for the beginning of the flight. Sativa wanted to make sure time was back to normal by the time they got to the USA, as he needed to be totally with it and not too stoned to meet his new friends.
Original Artwork by Aly Stinson. Click the picture for her Facebook.
* * *
Meanwhile, back in Townington, the gang were really bummed out. The snow trapped them in the house and by midnight several feet had fallen. With some bud this would be kind of cool, but sober it was a real drag. They had a half a bottle of vodka, but none of them really liked to drink anyway. The electricity was out. They had a fireplace for entertainment, but it wasn’t very entertaining.
Little did they know, Sativa Claus was on his way, along with the Cannabismas Sloths, to make everything okay. But for now, they were just bummed. They tried to kill the time by playing some card games, but nobody was into it. Things were looking rather bleak.
Sativa Claus, Tokey and Smokey were getting close, and it was time to dip the magic carpet down into the clouds and brave the snowstorm they knew was beneath. Within a few minutes after entering the cloud, the floating carpet was getting covered in snow. They removed the snow as fast as more could fall, and it was starting to weigh them down and they were getting tired. Sativa’s psychic GPS told him they were about to be over Townington, so he made the decision to just make a bomb to the ground, pulling the carpet up from the near vertical position just before they landed, straightening it out and coasting into a snow drift. Killer landing, if there ever was one. No one rides a magic carpet like Sativa Claus. No one.
After they landed, they dusted themselves off and found shelter under a nearby bridge to collect their breath and figure out how far to the house. Smokey and Tokey rolled up the magic carpet and jumped into Sativa’s sack, as he informed them they’re really close. Only a half mile away.
Living in the jungles of Peru, Sativa Claud is not exactly used to walking through snow. Luckily, he had just the thing to clear his path. Sativa asked the sloths to grab the quantum pen vape, and Tokey handed it to him. Being a quantum pen vape, it can direct its energies in multiple directions at once, and is capable of being set to a very high temperature and range. Sativa had no problem using it to clear a path right to the door of the house where Paul, Steve and Bree were unsuccessfully trying to entertain themselves by playing cards. He knocked on the door.
“Damn, who could be knocking at this hour, in this weather?” Steve said.
“Who ever it is, hopefully they have weed,” Paul said, without even a glimmer of hope in his voice indicating he thought this was a possibility.
They all jumped up and opened the door, and there stood Sativa Claus, a really tall dude in a green trench coat, carrying a big sack. There was a glowing aura surrounding him. Peaking out of the sack they saw the cute little sloths. This was definitely weird, they collectively thought, but they also smelled weed. Really strong, good, awesome weed.
“I heard someone around here is in need of some weed,” Sativa asked. “Do I have the right place?”
“Yeah,” they all said at once. “Come in.”
“We just flew in from Peru,” Sativa told them, as he laid down the bag for Smokey and Tokey to get out and make themselves more comfortable.
“The weather was terrible. But, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sativa Claus, and I’m as old as the sky, and I help people out when they’ve been wronged, and that cop yesterday, well he wronged you, and I want to make that right.”
Bree, Paul and Steve were in shock, kind of speechless. Something like this doesn’t exactly happen every day.
“I have a new strain I’ve developed, I’m calling it the Cannabismas Miracle. Merry Cannabismas!”
He handed all three of them their own joints, and proceeded to light each one. They each took big hits and then coughed like crazy. Sativa and the sloths laughed. People always cough the first time they try try one of his strains. His are not ordinary strains, after all. He puts a lot of magic and centuries of wisdom into each one.
“Thank you so much, Sativa Claus, this shit is fucking amazing,” Paul said.
“I’m glad you all like it. Other than the sloths and me, you’re all the first to ever smoke this strain. I knew it was something special, and I wanted to find some special people to share it with. Now, I’d like you all to think about something before the sloths and I head on to our next mission. This world is full of miserable shits. Some of them are just bad people, and others have been made that way by a bad world. You can let them get to you, or you can live your life. At every moment, the choice is yours to choose either freedom, peace and love, or oppression, destruction and hate. Just remember, when shit gets real bad, just take a drag of grass, lay back, relax, close your eyes and dream, and the forces of evil, despite how they try, can not take that from you.”
“Thanks Sativa,” Bree said, and she gave him a hug. Paul and Steve followed suit. They all hugged Smokey too. Tokey had already passed out, but Smokey tapped him on the head to wake him up, and he got his hugs too.
“Goodbye Sativa. Thank you…” they all exclaimed, in one way or another, as he opened the door.
“One last thing. I know when you’ve been sleeping. I know when you’re getting baked. I know if the bud is bad or good, so only smoke the good shit, for goodness sake…”
Sativa and the sloths rolled out the magic carpet on the front porch, hopped on board and floated up toward the clouds, on to right another wrong, and bring some peace and love to our troubled world.
The End
© Rob Cotton, 2014
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