Hairy Pothead and The Marijuana Stone

CHAPTER 1
The Last of the Line

An old man stood in the nighttime shadows on the end of Mainstream Drive. He was tall and thin, with long silver hair and an even longer beard, which was tucked under a belt whose buckle was a large, silver, seven-pointed leaf.

His blazing red eyes were hidden behind half-moon mirrored spectacles, which sat on the tip of a long, crooked nose. He wore a heavy purple robe with blue trim, pants with yellow and red stripes, and a long undercoat interwoven with intricate patterns of the same leaf as that on his belt. The leaf appeared again on the large buckles that adorned his high-heeled boots. All of his clothes were made of pure hemp.

The man’s name was Alwaze Duinthadope. He reeked of marijuana so strongly that police dogs were howling thirty blocks downwind.

Duinthadope didn’t seem to realize that he was in a neighborhood where everything from his scent to his buckles was unwelcome. He glanced up at the thin sliver of moon then looked impatiently at his wristwatch, which had five hands and the number 4 at all twelve points on the dial.

“Almost 4:20 in Moscow...” he muttered to himself. “I hope he gets here soon.”

Duinthadope reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a thick joint of pungent marijuana, lighting it and slipping it between his lips in one smooth motion. He took a long, strong drag, drawing the aromatic smoke deeply into his powerful lungs, then expelling it through his nose in a thick, steady stream.

A woman emerged from the shadows across the street, and walked briskly in Duinthadope’s direction. She had a severe look, and wore heavy square glasses with markings on them like the spots on a cat. She, too, was wearing a thick hempen cloak, her’s of emerald green. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun, inside of which was hidden a carefully wrapped stash of potent pot-infused toffees.

When she was next to him, Duinthadope smiled grimly and passed her the joint. The woman looked distinctly ruffled, but her mood seemed to mellow as she took a slightly lighter hit than Duinthadope, then cupped the joint in both her hands and inhaled the smoke coming from the blazing cherry.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGanjagal.” said Duinthadope quietly, his mirrored glasses reflecting the spot of orange glowing in the darkness.

McGanjagal tilted her head back and blew a series of smoke rings in the air before handing the joint back to Duinthadope. Any passer-by would have smelled their smoke, but seen only the red cherry moving in the dark shadows between suburban houses.

“You know what they’re saying?” McGanjagal asked quietly, then continued without waiting for a reply. “They’re
saying that What’s-his-face himself led the raid on the Pothead’s growhouse. They say that he killed the Potheads, that Mary-Jane and Jay Pothead are dead!” Duinthadope took the joint away from his mouth and bowed his head sadly. Professor McGanjagal gasped. “Mary-Jane and Jay – I can’t believe it... I don’t want to believe it... Oh, Alwaze...”

Duinthadope reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know, I know...” he said heavily.
“That’s not all,” she continued after a moment. “They also said that he tried to kill the Pothead’s son, Hairy. That he went there to kill them all, but that when he tried to kill Hairy Pothead, What’s-his-face was horribly hurt and disfigured, possibly killed in the blaze, burned to death.”

“I certainly hope so,” replied Duinthadope, “although apparently his body has not been recovered. But come on, can’t we call him by his proper name? Officer Pasdepot.” Professor McGanjagal flinched at the name, but Duinthadope seemed not to notice.

“But it’s true,” faltered Profes-sor McGanjagal. “After all he’s done, the lives he’s ruined, he was stop-ped while trying to kill a little boy? It’s just astounding...”

She was interrupted by a low rumbling sound that broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as a huge motorbike with sidecar came roaring around the corner and into view. The man riding it was massive – he looked bigger than humanly possible, with wild, long tangles of black hair, and a thick, bushy beard that hid most of his face. He was clad almost entirely in leather, from heavy black boots to a leather jacket with a patch on the shoulder, of a winged skull wearing a red helmet. He stopped the engine, reached into the sidecar with his vast, muscular arms, and took out a small bundle of blankets.

“Hogride!” said Duinthadope, striding forward and taking the bundle from the biker’s arms. “At last! Did anyone follow you?”

“No sir,” said the giant, climbing off the motorbike. “Tha ‘ouse was almos’ destroyed, but I got ‘im out alright afore the cops started ta swarm aroun’. He fell asleep while we was drivin’ ‘ere.”

McGanjagal passed the still-burning joint to Hogride, who took it between his thick fingers and inhaled the rest of it in one long toke. Then she bent over the bundle of blankets as Duinthadope opened them to peer inside. They could see a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a seven-pointed leaf.

“Is that what – ?” whispered Professor McGanjagal.

“Yes,” said Duinthadope. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you put some cannabis salve on there to help it heal?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t,” replied Duinthadope. “Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee, which is a miniature map of all my outdoor crops on the West Coast. Anyways, let’s get this over with.” Duinthadope turned towards a nearby house.

“Could I – could I say goodbye ta him, sir?” asked Hogride sheepishly, flicking the tiny roach from his hand. He bent his great, shaggy head over Hairy and exhaled a thick cloud of sweet smoke which surrounded the sleeping child, then leaned in closer and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Suddenly, Hogride let out a wail like a wounded pit bull.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGanjagal. “You’ll wake the Squares!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hogride, taking out a large hemp handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it – Mary-Jane and Jay dead – an’ poor little ‘airy off ter live with Squares –”

“It’s the best place for him,” said Duinthadope firmly. “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGanjagal faintly. “Really, Duinthadope, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him. This boy is a Pothead! I doubt these folks have ever had a toke in their lives.”

“Exactly,” said Duinthadope. “Where better to hide the boy until things blow over? He’ll be better growing up here, away from all of that, until he’s ready to take it.” Duinthadope turned and stepped over the low garden wall, then walked to the front door. He laid Hairy gently on the doorstep, took a letter written on hemp paper out of his cloak and tucked it inside Hairy’s blankets, then came back to join his two companions. They stood and looked at the bundle, then Duinthadope lit another joint and they shared it in silence.

“Well,” said Duinthadope finally, “That’s that. We’ve no business staying here.”

Hogride, wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, silently swung himself onto the motorbike and kicked the engine to life. With a roar he rode off into the night.

“I shall see you soon I expect, Professor McGanjagal,” said Duinthadope, nodding to her. She smiled wanly, popped a toffee into her mouth, and turned to walk away.

Duinthadope walked the other way, lighting up another joint as he went. “Good luck, Hairy,” he murmured, as he disappeared into the darkness and a fresh cloud of pungent smoke.

A breeze ruffled the hedges of Mainstream Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the moonlit sky. Hairy Pothead rolled over inside his soft hemp blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him, his other hand clutching a small seed, which even Duinthadope hadn’t noticed.

Hairy slept on, not knowing that he was special, not knowing that his parents had died in a fire sparked during a raid on their home marijuana garden... not knowing that he would be woken in a few hours time by Mrs. Straitley’s screams as she opened the front door to put out the recycling, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being jabbed and poked by his cousin Studly... He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their bongs, and saying in hushed voices: “To Hairy Pothead – the last of the line!”

Tyt

Fifteen years later, Hairy Pothead receives a letter from Hempwards School for Herbcraft and Weedery. A huge biker named Hogride helps him get his school supplies and travel to the school’s secret location, where Hairy is assigned to Growindor House and begins learning all about hemp and marijuana. Classes include Hempology, Cannatheism, Growing, Medicine, Extractions and Defense Against the Drug Cops. Hairy finds that some classes go better than others…

Tyt

CHAPTER 10
The Prisoner of Vatican

It took Hairy and the other new students a few days to get the hang of things, and even just finding their way between various classrooms in the huge Cannabis Castle was a complex chore. Their schedule was filled with lectures, assigned readings, practical work, mealtimes and scheduled study sessions. Hairy sometimes wondered if they would ever get a chance to just kick back and relax again.

All the classes were tough, but Extractions was the worst. On the very first day, Hairy became convinced that Professor Vacuous Vape detested him, for reasons he didn’t understand.

Extractions took place down in one of the deepest dungeons. It was cold and Vape kept the lights low, so as not to disturb his many solvents and concoctions in progress. The walls were lined with innumerable jars, bottles, vials and boxes, each containing mysterious liquids, powders, herbs and gels. It was one of the two classes that the Growindor and Snytcherin houses took together, which made things immeasurably worse.

Vape began by taking attendance, and he paused at Hairy’s name. “Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Hairy Pothead, our new… celebrity.”

Narco and his Snytcherin friends, Finke and Teller, sniggered. Vape finished calling out names, then rose from behind his desk to address the class. “You are here to study the exacting art and subtle science of extractions,” he began, speaking quietly and precisely. “I doubt many of you truly appreciate or even understand the elegant beauty of the seventy-three micron screen, the delicate power of the perfectly distilled tincture, or the supreme stickiness of the pure golden oil...”

Vape surveyed the class disdainfully. “I can teach you to bottle dreams, to turn trash into the finest hash, to refine and purify both your harvest and your mind! You could become true alchemists – if you aren’t as big a bunch of dimwits as I normally have to teach!” There was silence. Hairy’s friend Gon Weedly glanced at Hairy and raised his eyebrows.

“Pothead!” said Vape suddenly. “Where are the psychoactive and medicinal resins formed on the cannabis plant?”
Psycho-what? Hairy glanced at his friend Gon, who looked as confused as he was. Herbonme Stranger put her hand straight in the air.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Hairy.

“Tut, tut,” sneered Vape. “Too good to crack the books? The resins are formed within the trichomes, tiny capitate stalks which are concentrated on the plant’s floral clusters. Let’s try again, Pothead – something easier perhaps. What are the two main methods used to separate, or extract, these resinous trichomes from raw marijuana?”

Hairy still didn’t even know what many of those words meant. “I don’t know sir,” he replied.

Vape continued to ignore Herbonme’s quivering raised hand. “Pothead, do you even know what THC stands for?”

“No sir, but I think she does,” answered Hairy, pointing at Herbonme.

“For your information, Pothead, THC is the main psychoactive compound in cannabis, and its full name is Tetrahydrocanna-binol. It is one of many cannabinoids, each with unique effects and characteristics.” Vape continued, “and the two main methods which we will be studying here are solvents and sieves, Pothead. They are the keys. With proper use of these two tools, you can harvest the resinous trichomes and reduce cannabis to its most essential elements, creating most potent potions indeed! Well? Why aren’t you all copying this down?”
The rest of the class went even worse. Vape spent a great deal of time drawing complex chemical diagrams on the chalkboard and using words with more syllables than Hairy could count. His fingers soon ached from taking so many notes.

Finally, Vape put down the chalk and told the students to pair up for some practical cold-water sieve extraction exercises. He gave each duo a five-gallon bucket, a bag full of dried cannabis leaves, an electric eggbeater, and a set of five color-coded canvas bags that had fine mesh screens sewn into their flat bottoms.

“Line the bags inside the bucket,” instructed Vape, sweeping around the classroom and watching their progress, “then fill it with ice-water and add the dried leaves and trim. Stir it thoroughly using the egg-beater, to ensure that all the trichomes are removed from the plant material.” Hairy and Gon had teamed up, and they worked diligently to follow Vape’s instructions.

“Good work Narco,” said Vape, watching as his favored pupil poured dried marijuana leaves and small bits of bud into his bucket. Suddenly there was a ruckus next to Hairy, and he turned to see Shakey Bagbottom struggling with his eggbeater. He had gotten it caught on the bags and it was twisting uncontrollably – water and soggy green mush was sloshing out of his bucket.

“Argh!” yelled Shakey, holding the eggbeater with both hands as it spun the bucket in circles and wrapped the layered bags into tight knots. His feet slipped on spilled water, and Shakey was lying on his back in a spreading pool of green mush before Vape finally reached him and tore the smoking mixer from his grip.

“Idiot boy!” snarled Vape, then immediately turned on Hairy. “You, Pothead, why didn’t you stop him from making such a mess? Thought he’d make you look good with his incompetence, did you? Both of you will stay after class to clean up this disaster.”

This was clearly unfair. Hairy opened his mouth to complain, but shut it without speaking. He knew that if he challenged Vape it would only make things worse.

Finally the class was over, and most students had a little pouch of moist, freshly made hash powder to take away. Vape dismissed the rest of the class and Hairy sadly said goodbye to Gon and Herbonme, who both agreed that Vape obviously had it in for him for some reason.

Vape handed Hairy and Shakey each a mop and told them to clean the whole classroom floor, as “it wouldn’t look right” if they only mopped the place where Shakey had spilled water. “I shall return shortly, but you can leave when you’re done,” said Vape, striding out of the classroom. “However, if the mopping isn’t done properly then you’ll both be back again tomorrow to mop it all once more.”

Alone with Shakey, Hairy knew that this punishment wasn’t really his classmate’s fault, but he still felt resentful about the whole situation. They worked together quickly, but mostly in silence. It took a long time to mop the entire classroom floor, but finally they were done.

They had gotten halfway back to their dorm through the many winding hallways and stairwells before Hairy remembered that he had left his notebook behind in the classroom. He sighed, said goodbye to Shakey and began the long walk back to the dungeon and the Extractions room.

As he approached the open classroom door, Hairy heard Professor Vape’s voice echoing down the hall. “But if the Prisoner of Vatican has truly escaped, then perhaps the boy is in danger...”

Hairy stopped to listen as another voice replied. He recognized the powerful and soothing tones of Hempwards Master Head Duinthadope. “Surely, Vacuous, Dilirius Bake will not try to come here? He doesn’t know our hidden location, and this would be the most dangerous place on earth for him. You know, some people even say that he was not to blame for the Pothead’s murder.”

Hairy gasped. They were talking about his parents! The boy in danger was him!

“Bah,” spat back Vape, “the Potheads were fools to trust him, and you are a fool to question his guilt. Have you forgotten the video of him igniting the blaze? You know that Bake was the traitor who led Officer What’s-his-face directly to the Potheads! Now he could just as easily be coming straight here to finish the job!”

Hairy didn’t like hearing his parents or Duinthadope called fools. Part of him wanted to leap into the classroom and tell Vape that he was the fool, not his parents. But he restrained himself, and kept listening.

“The Council of Canabians wants to send Inquisitors to help protect the school, but I refused them,” continued the Master Head. “I don’t want those... things on my campus. However, I have instructed Agros to keep a close watch on the internal security systems. If Dilirius comes even close to the school grounds he will surely show up on one of the cameras.”

“Don’t be so sure Alwaze,” replied Professor Vape. “Dilirius Bake is a slippery fellow, catching him is like holding smoke in your fist. He escaped from Vatican! And he knew the school better than almost anyone. Don’t underestimate him, or we all could suffer.”

Hairy heard the distinctive deep gurgle of the tube-bong as Duinthadope’s only reply.

“Of course, I don’t trust anything the Vatican says,” continued Vape. “But our spies confirm that Dilirius was being held in the Vatican dungeons for the past fifteen years, and that now he has somehow recently escaped.”

“Yes, yes Vacuous,” replied Duinthadope. “I know, I know.”

“And what about the death of Professor Cheeba, has that been solved?”

“Do you think that is related to Bake?” said Duinthadope. “He was killed, yes, but it happened off-campus, and weeks before Dilirius escaped. The who and why have not yet been determined, but Highly Splifpassie is a suitable Defense class replacement.”

“That was not my point,” said Vape, his voice rising in frustration.

“Rest assured that I do take these matters seriously,” replied Duinthadope soothingly. “I am also well aware of the implications of the Greengold break-in. It’s a good thing Hogride got there before the thieves did.” Hairy heard the scraping of a chair as Duinthadope rose. “We can discuss this further at the staff meeting tomorrow.”
Hairy scurried back down the hall and ducked into a shadowy alcove. Soon Duinthadope passed by, carrying his long glass bong in a sling, apparently oblivious to Hairy’s presence. After a few breathless moments Hairy emerged and headed back down the hall and into the Extractions room. Professor Vape was seated behind his desk, reading a thick book as Hairy entered. “Yes?” he said distractedly, without looking up.

“Uh, I forgot my textbook,” said Hairy, going to fetch it from his desk.

“Quickly then!” sneered Vape, and as Hairy scurried out of the room he heard the Professor mutter, “Idiot boy! Just like his father.”

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