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Phucked Phreak Production Vol 18
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* April 21 Phucked Phreak Productions Vol 18 *
* Proudly Presents.... *
* *
* \ / \ *
* / / \ \/ *
* \ \ / \\ . *
* \ \ / \ ____________________________ *
* \ / \ ||||||| Rasta Man | *
* \ \ |||||||____________________________| *
* ' / *
* *
* WARNING: The Attorney General has determined that these files may *
* be as dangerous to your dogma as that cigarette is to your *
* Health! *
*__________________________________________________________________________*
Rasta Man
And The
Striped Snake
(If Chaucer were a Rasta...)
Feb. 14/91
by
J O H N C O N S T A N T I N E
While on a solitary hiking excursion through the
forests of Jamaica I met a rastafarian recluse with an
amazing tale. A couple days ago I had arrived in Jamaica
ready to continue the ethnobotanical studies I had begun at
school in the U.S.A. I had left the small village, where I
was staying, at dawn. It was now approximately 3:00 P.M.,
judging by the suns position. The air was hot, steamy, and
drawing breath was like sucking on a steampipe. The hike
had been mostly over flat land but now I was approaching a
steep hill covered with dense vegetation.
The nearer I got to the hill, the tougher the going
got. After reaching the hills foot I decided to break camp
for the day, planning to resume my travels in the morning.
After about one half hours rest I noticed an irregular
stream of smoke rising from a rocky outcropping atop the
hill. It rose in a strange sort of puffing pattern, like
indian smoke signals. The bush was far too thick for me to
make out the source at this distance but I assumed it was
some kind of small cooking fire, probably outside a crazy
old hermit's hut.
The brief rest and my aroused curiosity were enough to
give me a second wind. So I started trudging slowly uphill.
As I neared the outcropping a familiar smell reached my
nostrils, lighting a fire beneath my feet. Soon I could
make out the smokes source. On a rocky platform painted
with neon rastafarian symbols sat a cross legged native,
face obscured by dreadlocks the color and texture of steel
wool. He was smoking a hookah about three or four times the
size of my head. An evolutionary step above the caterpillar
in 'Alice In Wonderland' he blew smoke letters, not just
plain O's, but a whole alphabet plus a library of
rastafarian symbols unrecognizable to me. In fact, as I was
to learn later, he could blow whole motion pictures, not
just black and white but in color, with subtitles!
"Jah love, brotha", he blew, raising his right hand in
silent greeting.
Being an ethnobotanist, with a keen interest in
psychoactive plants, I had to know exactly what he was
smoking. "Howdy. What's in the bowl, friend?"
"Nuthin but da best, mon. It's da last o I stash. I
would be honored if ya will smoke wit I, mon.", the letters
drifted slowly downwind.
"Be glad to please you.", I said lowering my mouth
towards the hookah.
The rastafarian symbols, particularly the towers of
Babylon, took on a special significance as I happily
exhaled, passing the hookah back to it's owner.
"So what ya come up here for, mon? Looking for da holy
man at the mountaintop? Not I, mon. I just a burnt ole
man."
"Actually, I'm interested in plants... psychedelic
plants. I'm searching for the perfect drug."
"If Jah made better than this, mon, I know he be smokin
it hisself right now."
"... Well, mon, there may be better."
After saying this to me, or rather puffing it, he took
a long pull on the hookah after which he began projecting a
moving smoke movie... in color! Against the still blue sky,
the performance was amazingly clear.
***
This rasta had obviously left his rock not too long ago
because, in the style of 1990's movies, his came complete
with previews and even a Coca-Cola commercial before the
main event.
A young boy is sleeping, dreaming of Coca-Cola. He is
driving down an unmarked highway paved with rusting Coke
cans, when suddenly the road begins peeling from the ground,
angling up into a black void. After a long drive during
which he begins to panic a red blotch far down the road
comes into sight. Soon it is recognizable, a Coke machine.
The boy gets out and touches it. The machine collapses into
a paper coupon for a free case which the boy folds up, puts
in his back pocket, and later redeems.
The two previews were incomprehensible. The old man
was probably projecting his hallucinations, so I'll get
right to the movie which was a rastafied version of
Chaucer's Nun's Priest's Tale.
***
Dark thunderclouds gathered over a small town on an
unnamed island. The first droplets of cold rain were
beginning to fall, wetting the occupants of the leaky tavern
below. The smoky air swirled as the rasta zoomed in on the
back corner table. Three beings sat there drinking
recklessly and smoking like chimneys, a younger version of
the rasta, whose name I later found out was Aerol, a yellow
and red striped snake, and a ganja farmer named Maelcum.
Following the snakes advice both men had renounced
meditation and religion. They now sought enlightenment in
ganja and other psychedelics for the snake had told them,
"Zion is a state of mind."
Long into the night the snake filled their minds with
heinous lies and misinterpretations of the truth. At 2:45
A.M. a messenger burst in bearing sad news for Aerol. His
brother had just been brutally murdered by the islands
scourge, Death.
"Death, my friends...", the snake hissed, "can take one
south to Babylon or up to Zion. I say we find this Death
and Zion."
The two friends, enraged at the fate of Aerol's
brother, quickly agreed. Despite the protests of their
friends the two could not be dissuaded from this plan.
After stopping briefly at Aerol's home for weapons they set
out into the now pouring rain. The snake slithered swiftly
behind, giving directions.
Here the old rasta paused a moment to catch his breath
and to comment on what a fool he had been. Then, in a puff
of smoke, he continued.
The trio had come to a three pronged fork in the road.
From down the middle road an old man, withered horribly by
age, approached.
"Greetings friend! What news have you of a specter
named Death? He is said to be roaming this island. Indeed
he has just slain my brother."
"You are lucky", the old man slowly muttered, "to be
speaking with me at this time for I have just seen Death.
Simply take the wrong fork in this road and you cannot miss
him."
At this Aerol replied, "And which road, old sir, is the
wrong road?"
"With that wretched guide you cannot follow any road
but the wrong." With that he spat hatefully at the coiled
serpent. In response the snake struck out, sinking it's
long fangs into the old mans groin.
"Come, we have lingered to long.", the snake commanded.
With the snake now in the lead the two young men
marched down the wrong road. (The old rasta had it labeled
with big puffy red cloud-like lettering.) Soon they came to
a greenhouse containing a small forest of hydroponic ganja,
the most powerful variety ever known to mankind, a highly
addictive hybrid.
"Zion!", the two men exclaimed and the snake nodded in
silent agreement.
"This was not here before Maelcum. We must harvest,
sell, and smoke before it is discovered."
"Certainly.", replied the snake, "Aerol and I must
stand guard while you bring supplies. Hurry! We must
harvest before..."
An strange glance passed between the friends and
without exchange of words they decided to kill the snake as
it was no longer needed. Before it could finish speaking
the deed was done.
"Maelcum, get supplies now. Hurry!"
"Be back real soon Aerol."
As Maelcum's figure faded away into the nights
blackness Aerol began planning his death.
***
After sneaking back into town Maelcum went straight to
a weapons shop. For a small amount he purchased a rusting
dagger with a comfortable grip. It would be perfect for the
job. After a stop at the only market in town open at this
hour he prepared a final meal for his former friend then
gathered enough gardening gear for one man.
***
Back at the greenhouse Aerol stood quietly behind the
door, a straight razor open in his hand.
"Aerol, mon, lets eat...". With a sickly wet sound the
razor ripped Maelcum's throat wide open.
Grinning widely, knowing he need never work another day
in his life, Aerol plucked a sticky bud and swallowed it.
One hour later, as it took effect, he muttered sadly,
"I am in Babylon... Jah save me!"
***
As the massive hookahs contents slowly burned out the
old rasta puffed out dying words, "You are following the
wrong road, mon, turn back and meet I in Zion... Jah be with
you."
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This story, by me, was originally written for the
P.C.W.W. Creative Writing Workshop at Morton college, where it
won an honarable mention which I don't think it deserved.
Please do not use this file for anything other than enjoyment.
Distribute it freely but don't enter it into any contests or
anything.
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Call these bbs....
The Cage --- 708-945-3665 (PPP headquarters)
Ripco --- 708-528-5020
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Sex is Peace.
Ignorance is Slavery.
Consciousness is Freedom.
Peace \/
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