Astral Sex With Aliens

Everything was dry that year. Even the friendly Rastafarians at the local record store were out of herb. “Sorry, mon!” they said. The pleasant lazy bump of Jamaican One-Drop faded as I wandered down the street, when someone hissed at me from an alleyway as I passed.

“Devil’s weed,” she whispered. “Twenty a bag.” Ordinarily I would not have stopped, but the situation was desperate. Everyone I knew was scraping bowls. “No paraquat,” I said, cautiously. She was beautiful, deep subsaharan black skin and a boisterous riot of wonderfully unruly curls. For a moment I could have sworn she had horns, but when I looked again it was a trick of the light.

She gave an insulted glance. “What do you take me for? This is the kind herb, man. Got a hell of a kick to it.”

From her Australian accent, I could tell she was from down under. She held out the herb for me to sniff. She was right. That lusty smell, a cross between a skunk and a pussy.

“Deal,” I said, handing her a twenty. She grinned.

I would have suggested she offer the Rasta guys some, but when I looked away for a half a second she vanished. I could have sworn I saw a momentary flickering of firelight on the brick wall opposite.

I made my way home as quick as I could, and fired up the bong. In a minute, I figured I would call my friend Lucy, but that could wait while I took a hit. Loaded it up, crammed in the herb, and the familiar crackling of the red-hot cherry sent dense clouds up the tube.

When I inhaled, it was a headrush like I had never felt before. She hadn’t been kidding.