This will probably only be interesting to those who've come in contact with drugs, but not so much that they're desensitized to large quantities. Also, it's a drug story, but not a very complex one, so don't expect crazy double crossing and shit. But the story has to be told (partially just so i can tell it), so here goes:
(Usual disclaimer about this sort of thing, it's just a fictional account for your entertainment. I swear...)

Anyway, so there are two friends, J and D. A couple years ago, D's parent's moved to a condo a couple towns from where he used to live, and D lived with them there on and off while finishing high school in various places. But the house they used to live in was just leased out instead of being sold. Just this past summer, D and his sister were allowed to move into the house, paying only utilities and such.

J gets back from school and since he's still living at home with his parents, he's happy to have the space allowed by a good friend of his having basically his own place. Video games are played, movies and TV are watched, some loud music is played, cat5 is strung all over the house among open computer cases in a way that a house containing a parent would never have. Much bud is smoked. Things are stable.

Flash to a couple months later (August 2001). J is hanging out at D's house, things seem the same as usual. But after a joint is finished on the porch, D says "follow my cigarette," and repeats it again when a high and slightly confused J questions. J follows D's cigarette into the backyard (it's after 11 pm, so it's pitch black in said backyard). J, confused, quietly stops mumbling incoherent questions since D seems to be adamant about silence. D asks rhetorically how long they've known each other (since 4th grade, if you really need to know), then points his flashlight at the back of his house, and turns it on.

God. Damn. J has seen decently large amounts of weed before, but never *anything* approaching a significant quantity of live plants. Let alone 9 tall live plants with well defined leaves (but unfortunately no buds). J is anxious, giddy, and not just a little high, all run together.

The supplier of the bud mentioned earlier is pretty good friends with D, and knows about the house being mostly unchaparoned, so he decided to drop off some plants he stole from a greenhouse a couple days earlier. D sits on the plants for a little over a week, noticably nervous, especially when he's stoned and cars that look vaguely like police cruisers pass his house at night. J is equally nervous just to hang out over there, in the event of a raid, and is of course worried about his friend. Do the police know? Do they check the plates of cars going in and out? What about the phones? Paranoid but legitimate concerns when you've never really moved drugs before yourself. There are vows that the plants will be gone by weeks end, and of course these vows are broken. D wants to throw the plants out, but of course he doesn't really. What pothead could part with such a find so cavalierly?

Then that breaking point comes. D comes home from school. There's a ladder against the side of his house that wasn't there. And the grass is cut. In the backyard. The shit hits the fan. D calls, and in a surprisingly calm tone explains the whole situation (6 pm on a friday). By 8 pm, J has eaten dinner, thought the whole thing over, and committed to helping aleviate the danger. J and D drive around a little, and after a few considerations settle on a good dumping area (the dumpster at D's parent's condo). Back to the house, now with J in his trusty Honda Accord, and D borrowing his parents old Volvo station wagon (they needed some hauling space of course). And once they hit the driveway of D's house, they were the model of efficiency. All lights out, watching traffic. Plant after plant handed off from the temporary hiding space on the side of the house, into the kitchen (first room when you enter from the side). In under 3 minutes, the kitchen looks like a small jungle of cannabis. It's beautiful, brings a tear to their eyes. And then of course, out come the knives. J and D, working in total efficiency, not a superfluous movement, not an unnecessary word said, break down each plant, filling one trashbag with the most illegal part of the whole thing. 9 stacked pots, 3 trashbags of contaminated potting soil, 1 bag of fresh plants cut down in their prime, a stack of the bamboo support poles used in the pots, and a vacuuming later, and all that's left is a clean kitchen that looks totally legal. J and D stop for a minute, reflect on the illegality of what they're doing and the sadness of the wasted plants, and then they pack up all the shit in the car.

They're on the road, the volvo following the honda, right on the speed limit, heading for the dumpster. Every car is vaguely threatening, a bad driver waiting to get into an accident that would ruin the whole thing. Every police car is pure fear. When the cops see evidence of a person being a producer, when they catch someone with a trashbag containing more than a few ounces of fresh plant matter, he's not going to get a slap on the wrist and nothing on his record. He's not going to call his parents, and tell them that (worst fear of a pothead who's parents don't know) he's been caugh for simple possession. He's going to jail. He's getting arraigned for distribution. He might even be a small article in his town paper. Not a pretty scenario.

But somehow, J and D make it to the dumpster intact. The stuff is all tossed in. The area is surveyed once again for witnesses, and there are none. Job well done. Keys to volvo replaced to unsuspecting parents' kitchen counter. J and D take off.

And they notice a couple funny things: this is far and away the most legally dangerous thing either has done. And the car ride back to D's house is half "can you believe what just happened in the last hour and a half," half bullshit legal theorizing on the various outcomes of what was just done. Either way, there's a vague feeling of safetey, a peace in knowing that nothing else can really be done. In a week or so they know, it'll all have blown over. The next few days all they can do is say "can you believe what we did last friday?" and then hope there are no unforseen complications. A few more days, and the two will know they are home free...
(needles to say, every bit of weed left in their possession after that was smoked before the night was over).

I am NOT J. D is NOT one of my best friends. This did NOT happen a couple days ago.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.