The Chillest The Dankest.

The Chillest The Dankest.

Linda Baylor

Going 95 in the 75 and the pig came out of nowhere. These young wooks have a pound of Girl Scout Cookies, maybe a couple eighths of Penis Envy caps, a Glock, $5,000 cash, and who knows what else being personally stored. But most potent, important, and potentially lethal amongst their haul, was the ounce of pure Lysergic Acid Diethalymide in crystal form, containing more than 300,000 potent hits of the psychedelic drug in its most raw form. It has been entrusted to them by their elders for a safe and swift transport and dissemination throughout various
clandestine circles that are inherently paranoid and rightfully so. Getting caught with dose will cost you: for even a first offense, an amount of acid up to and including 10 grams will get you five to 40 years in prison and a fine of 2 million dollars. Anything more than that? Life in prison. In 1991 a Supreme Court ruling found that when weighing blotter acid, the weight of the paper can be included — even if there are only a couple hits on the entire sheet. Why so scared, DEA?
Afraid in the right hands this drug may do more good than harm? That’s what the boys kept telling themselves anyway as they continued their felonious journey.

Late afternoon sunlight glaring through his streaky windshield, this cop scopes the Colorado plates on the dark green ’03 Sub Forester and thinks he might have finally lucked into the drug raid fantasy he always dreamed of being the hero in. This guy is blonde, young, ambitious, and due to a lifelong obsession with following rules, utterly ignorant to the culture and substances he is so ardently pursuing. The boys see the blueberries and cherries coming up from behind, hear
the sirens that are resolutely NOT part of the MetroBoomin’ beat they were nodding along to, and keep their cool, calmly looking straight ahead. This isn’t anyone’s first rodeo driving across state lines with life-ruining amounts of illegal shit in the car. They wouldn’t have been asked to do so if it had been. GDF is cautious. They have to be, producing 80% of the acid in the US — and with the
unpredictability of those who have a preference for the drug and its adjoining lifestyle. Beneath the feel-good vibes of the mind-expanding-face-melting-free- love-headiness that the Grateful Dead followers are known for, a subculture of thuggishness and organized crime prevails. What began as a common goal of turning the world on in the 1960s succumbed to the gnashing jaws of capitalism once it became apparent that there was hustling to be done and money to be made off the youth culture. What’s the opposite of a silver lining?

Even though each guy’s 20-something life is low-key flashing before his eyes, they all maintain an aura of innocence, knowing most of their haul is packed away in smell proof bags, in traps in the car, stuffed into jars of Nutella and Folgers — with the exception of the sacred LSD crystal, floating like a fetus in the womb of a glass jar filled with inert gas. They were all too afraid to tamper with it’s integrity, so it sat, in the Kay Jewelers box in which they received it, basking in the moderated temperature of the air conditioning, right there in the center console. Unassuming
to the average eye, but so conspicuous to the interrogating one. Of course that overly nondescript container was the first thing the eager rookie cop honed in on.

Officer moseys up to that routine traffic stop with every intention of keeping things by the book — God forbid he forget to read em their rights and then the biggest pot bust of his short career goes right down the shitter... Comes up all relaxed and authoritative: assumes those pansy hippies wouldn’t have firearms or the balls to pop one off — when was the last time you saw a Phish and an NRA bumper sticker on the same car? Asks for the requisite papers, but his attention is
elsewhere: he’s casing the car and hoping these schmucks don’t know their 4th amendment rights. His cop intuition is on point. He knows they’re hiding something in plain sight and asks to see the ring box sitting in-between the Big Gulp and the sunglasses by the dash. Knows there’s no diamond solitaire in there.

“What’s in that box?” He says to no one in particular, and his pale milk-fed cheeks can’t help but flush with excitement. The kids aren’t prepared for that question, each mind reeling with where else they should have put that box, why didn’t they hide it, how did he know? Instinctually, the cop knows he’s hit pay dirt and goes for it, holding out his hand to indicate he wanted to see for himself. Stoned, shocked, moving on autopilot, and completely forgetting the magic words “I do not consent to a search”, the driver hands over the box. Horrified expressions of naked fear and disbelief loom behind him from the backseat: it was starting to seem like they were going to have to make use of the handgun tucked just out of reach beneath the passenger seat. The cop is surprised by their willingness but chalks it up to white people problems and is grateful for their benign attitude towards law enforcement.

He takes the box, opens it, and is confused. No glassine bags, 8 balls, rocks, chunks of tar, or any of the standard examples of illicit enforceable drugs that he viewed in the academy. What is this, incense? Hoping he didn’t waste his efforts on some granola-type priest’s sacramental oils, it occurs to him to smell it. Abandoning all of his prior training related to situations exactly like this, Johnny Law takes a deep whiff of what’s inside the glass jar... and instantly consumes at least 1000 hits of motherfucking fire needlepoint fluff. Gone. Goodbye brain as you know it. See you never. He stands, frozen like a statue, evidently in the throes of a psychedelic journey none of us will ever know about. From just inhaling the molecules that orbited around this thing.

Ironic that something so beautiful can be used as a weapon — don’t cross the fam or they’ll touch you with the acid crystal. The reason this threat is lore is because of stories like this. At first the guys in the car wait: is this a joke? It seems too comedic to be real. Then, the contorted expression on the cop’s face tells them otherwise. They realize what’s happened, and yet no one is brave enough — or stupid enough — to get out of the car and pick up the box, jar, and crystal that tumbled out of the cop’s hands and into the gravel on the shoulder beneath the car. They drove off, slowly at first, then tearing out of there on the momentum of someone who’s gotten away with the equivalent of murder. The crystal lay there, discarded as a cigarette, but glowing with a luminous light like a rod of uranium, plutonium, whatever, just waiting for someone else to pick it up.

Still Here

Still Here

First We Are

First We Are