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Sweet Leaf: The Fictional Misadventures of Dankula


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In real life, I'm an author. I make my living by writing lies and selling books to people to make them happy. Lately, I've noticed there's not many stories in the lifestyle, nor in the movies since... I dunno... Friday-esque-ness?

Anyway, working title is Sweet Leaf for now. Black Sabbath, I know. Wah, wah. But if I get to the end of this stories potential (Going to be eleven to thirteen novellas) I'm going to pitch it to Netflix, along with another series I wrote with this in mind under a different name. Once I finish the novella and put it up for sale tho, I might have to take this thread down, or ask it to be. That way I don't run afoul of the publishers. If you want to read what demented shit comes out of this pen-monkey's brain, it'll be up until I finish. I hope :D

Going for a chapter a week on this project, while I work on my money projects daily.


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Chapter 1 –

The man who thought of himself as Dank, or BL Dankula while online was hot and sweating. He’d stashed bales of Pro-Mix on the side of the road two days before, and although they had been bone-dry when he’d done that… it had rained. Enough of the bags had enough of a hole in them that the drenching had made the light bales almost burst out of the plastic, not to mention add twenty pounds. At least, that’s what Dank thought it felt like.

As a prepper, he supplemented his blogging and writing income any way he could. His vices were many, and his job skills outside of self-employment were slim to none. Plus, his vices were expensive if he had to pay retail. Thankfully, he never paid retail for his vices. Except for the ladies, he had to show them a good time in order to get their clothing to drop, and most of them made him work for it.

Adjusting the makeshift harness he made out of paracord, pulling the slide knot tighter to pull the bale in close, he kept walking up the hill. He’d found the spot almost on accident. He’d been hiding out from a gal he’d picked up named Valerie or Vanessa? Some kind of V name, Dank couldn’t remember, too much booze, too many hits on the bong. Plus, he didn’t care. She’d awoken in the morning to find him doing his usual routine. Rolling a J, waiting for his coffee to finish coming out of the Keurig. She’d gone on and on about how partying at night was fine, but to wake and bake?
Hell no, Dankula was not about pushy ladies. He liked his life low and slow. The only time he ever hurried was when he was chased. That morning, he’d ran out the door with his clothing, his bug out bag, sans underwear as she chased him out of the house with a kitchen knife. The neighbors had a good laugh, hopefully at the V ladies’ expense, but he knew better.

Up the hill, and deeper into the woods until he had to stop and pull the clothing on and apply the Deep Woods off out of his pack to keep his ball sack from swelling the size of grapefruits. The mosquitos were bad. As he’d sat there and scratched and slapped away his misery, he’d heard running water. Seriously. Right up the hill on the property behind his, about half a mile away. He’d seen topography maps of the area, and there were no streams in this area. But running water? Forgetting the night of mind-numbing sex, some good smoke and tequila chasers at the Rooster Tavern, he’d gone in search. What he found sort of blew his mind.

The hilly country in his area was full of hiking opportunities, and Dank wasn’t against exercise when it fit his needs, but he’d never gone back this way because on paper it looked stupid. No water, no good soil, and a forest fire had come through a couple of years back, so no growth to hide his “little trees.” In other words, no good for growing the dope. That was his third job, though he counted it as a hobby. If he’d stopped to think about how much of his money went into growing and selling weed, it was probably his most profitable job. To him, it was an avocation.

He wasn’t into it for the medicine, though he knew it was helpful and worked. He wasn’t into it to get off of prescription drugs, though he knew it worked as an anti-inflammatory and pain killer. He knew it cured cancer, yet he had none in his 29-year-old body. What did he like? To get altered. He loved the way his head swam after the first hit and his nerves mellowed out. He liked it more than booze, but you can’t walk around smelling like tequila, and weed was more accepted than it used to be. Plus, he liked the rebellious aspect of fucking with the government, staying one step ahead of the possum sheriffs and BLM officers. He also liked the idea of having something he could make himself if the world went tits up and it was needed for things, other than getting lit.

A modern-day outlaw. That’s what he thought of himself.

“Fucking A,” he said, his breath coming out in a gasp as he took another large step and over the small rocky ridge.

The sight was beautiful. Where there had been large oaks and maple trees, there was a ton of scrub brush, now almost six feet tall. With a sigh, he started down, the easier part of this trip. He stopped at a rocky shelf and pulled the makeshift straps off and then let the last bale of Pro-Mix down. He grinned at the hateful plastic bale. After taking the cordage off, he gave it a gentle kick, sending it downhill. It started to tumble but snagged on something and came to a stop about ten feet away from the hole he’d dug the day before. Then, he sat down on the edge of the rock face and held out a hand.

Someone about a hundred thousand years or so had pounded some galvanized pipe into a crack in the rock (ok, maybe about forty years back), tapping into a natural artesian well. It gave off a steady stream of cold, clear water. Dank even had that shit tested at the University of Nofuckistan. Heh. Not really, but his zero-water filter test tool said it had nothing. Since finding this, he’d been planning on adding another outdoor grow. And who would think to look on somebody else’s landlocked property that they hadn’t visited in thirty years?

The reason for the Pro-Mix was he’d found another flat shelf amongst the scrub. The soil was poor enough he’d rather grow in his magical mix. About eight inches down he’d hit rock again, which pissed him off. So, he’d pour mounds of Pro-Mix in the holes, put his clones in the middle when they were hardened off, set up his drip water system made of plastic pipe that he’d drilled holes in and call this site number four.

Three other locations had already been planted, but this one was a bonus. He had the cash flow at the moment to add another grow op, and if it panned out, it would be a good payday come late fall. Each plant was worth between $2000 and $4000, enough to cover his bills for a month and a half each. This grow site had an opportunity of forty plants, a potential of $160k. All he was out, was twenty bales of Pro-Mix, or about a thousand dollars’ worth of dirt and all the goodies he added to it to make his girls grow big fat buds for him.

“Time to make the chimi fucking changas,” he said, grinning to himself, rubbing his hands together.


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Chapter 2 –

The loud banging and screaming at the front door should have been a clue, but Dank had smoked down after getting home, falling asleep on his couch. The door splintered and four figures in black tactical gear burst in, submachine guns waving about, their flashlights on, red dots everywhere. Dank barely had opened an eye to register this before he was getting thrown off the couch, his hands pulled tight behind his back. The zipping sound and bite of cable ties had him yelping into wakefulness.

“Where is it?” A lady cop yelled at the back of my head.

“mffpeth,” he said, like a masterful literary genius I was known to be by my prepper fiction.

“Roll him over, Flowers,” another one told her, stating the obvious.

he was jerked half up, then slammed down. The female officer sat right on my chest, straddling my arms. I had a great shot at what would have been underboob, but her vest ruined his good morning dreams.

“Where are the drugs?” Officer Flowers said, menace in her voice.

“We’ve got a warrant, we’ll find it anyway,” the third cop said.

“Can you move up a little?” Dank asked.

“I’m asking the questions here, now where are the drugs?”

“What drugs?” He asked her, having a hard time clearing his head and getting a full breath.

“This place smells like the ass end of a Snoop Dogg concert,” A second cop said.

Dank heard crashing from the kitchen as what had to be his silverware drawer was flung about.

“I’ve got a caregiver card,” I said, my voice coming out in a gasp, “Licensed to grow about forty plants, but I’ve only got four.”

Officer Flowers glowered at Dank as her hands quickly frisked him. He’d gone to sleep in sweat pants and a wife beater, but she was looking for pockets and things tucked into waistbands. What she found—

“What’s this?” She asked, grasping what she’d found firmly, her hand feeling the object.

Dank moaned as she slid back, still pinning his arms and sitting on his bladder.

“The was the worst case of morning wood, but if you keep doing that… I don’t know what’s going to come out the end. Sorry.”

The cop who’d been covering her started laughing, and she shot him a dark look before turning back to Dank. He tried not to grimace as her grip tightened on his member, then she let go and stood up.

“He’s… clean.”

Dank got to his knees then stood enough to flop on the couch.

“What are you guys looking for?” He asked again.

“Drugs,” The cop who laughed said.

“Apparently that’s not what Officer Flowers was looking for. What’s wrong sugar? Been hard up lately? Been frustrated because you didn’t get your BDSM quota in, for beating suspects?”

Her face went beet red and the cop who laughed went stone-faced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, tossing a packet of papers at Dank.

“No man, sorry. It’s in bad taste, it’s just… It’s like five am and shit, and Y'all come busting in here like super troopers go tacticool—”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” the guy cop said with a wry grin.

“No shit?” Dank must have overslept, but he looked at his DVR and saw it blinking 1:32 pm.

“We’ve got a safe back here,” The fourth cop called from what sounded like my bedroom.

“Want to open it for me, or am I going to have to bust it open?” Officer Flowers asked.

“You just want to get me in my bedroom. I know what you’ve got on your dirty mind,” He laughed getting to his feet.

If her face got any redder, Dank was worried her head would explode like a zit that had been squeezed too hard.

“You want me to tase you?” She asked, her hand going to her utility belt.

“Will you whisper dirty words to me, as you do it?” He shot back.

“Come on,” The grinning guy cop said, grabbing my arm, yanking me on my feet.

“Like my décor?” I asked him as we pushed through the beaded archway that separated the living room to the hallway.

“Very chic,” he said, “how do we get into the safe?”

“It’s a numeric code,” The fourth cop yelled.

“What’s the code?” Flowers asked as she gave Dank a shove into the bedroom.

It was cramped in his room, and he fell on the bed. Girl was strong, not wang strong, but she worked out or something.

“I’ll give you the code, but promise not to laugh,” Dank told her.

Another cop came in the doorway, so now there were five cops in his room. GULP.

“You toss the place already?” Dank asked them.

“Yeah,” the third guy cop said, “anonymous tip said you kept a bale of pot here.”

BL Dankula laughed out loud and rolled his legs over the side of the bed.

“Listen, I’ve got to piss,” He said suddenly, “really, really bad.”

“He’s stalling,” Flowers said.

“If I give you the code to my safe, will you cut the straps on my hands and let me piss? My bathrooms right there? I’ll even let you perv me as I drain the lizard.” The last was said with a lascivious wink that went unappreciated.

“What’s the code?” Flowers asked in a menacing voice.

“Closer,” Dank said in almost a whisper, nodding his head for her to come his way.

She leaned in, her face tight. Dank noticed she was probably his age, but she was very fit. Her naturally blonde hair was pulled tight into a bun, but in the tussle with him on the couch, some flyaways fell down and were sticking at the corner of her mouth. The way her unisex plate carrier rested, she either had a really big stomach or a really big—

“What is it?” She said, her voice matching his in volume.

“Six-nine, six nine,” he whispered quietly.

The elbow caught him in the sternum, and he fell onto the bed again.

“What’s the code?” The cop in front of the safe asked.

“I’ll do it,” Flowers snarled.

“I’m standing right here,” The other cop said, not moving.

Dank rolled onto his shoulders, feet up. Carefully he pulled his hands over his butt, the plastic digging into his wrists before he was able to pull them over his legs. Now his arms were out front, he rolled off the bed, standing.

“Hold it!” Flowers brought her submachine gun up in a fast motion, the dot pointing at his eye, probably giving him glaucoma or some shit like that.

“I got to piss,” Dank repeated, “Can you move? Things are about to be horribly desperate in a sec here.”

“I don’t understand why you need your hands in front,” Officer Flowers all but snarled.

“Two things,” Dank elucidated, “No way for me to drop my drawers with my hands in the back. Number two is more of a guy thing and you wouldn’t understand.”

She let out an unarticulated snarl.

“Ok, ok,” Dank said holding his zip-tied hands up, palms out, “Two ways to fix morning wood. Sit down and lean forward so you don’t paint your name on the wall and let it rip. The second way, lean forward, use both hands to aim.”

She let out a disgusted sound and punched the code into the safe, then turning the handle.

“No, he’s dead on,” the first guy cop said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She turned to ask the others.

“Morning wood is worse than an overdose of Viagra, but only lasts until you drain the lizard,” The fourth cop at the safe said, then burst out laughing.

She let out another disgusted sound and pulled open the safe and stepped back. Dank’s large happy face, have a nice day emogy was there, with a doobie penciled in from a sharpie was on the back wall. The safe was empty except three jars on the floor. She picked two in one hand, a third in another and set them on top.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” She asked the room at large.

The first jar had about twenty joints rolled up. The second was full of trim, the third was packed with packets of zig-zags. Dank ignored them and walked into the bathroom. He had no intentions of giving the cops an easy time. Here at home, he was well within the law. Mostly. Within his home that is. He put up the seat and then stepped back. Time for his magic tricks. He held up his doubled fists in front of him, his elbows out, then quickly snapped his wrists down to his waist, straightening his arms. The cable tie snapped and fell to the ground.

Everyone stopped what they were doing, but Dank really had to go. He whipped out the thunder lizard, leaned forward, one hand to hold himself as he leaned over, and one to aim.

“Nirvana,” he said, going for broke in trying to beat the world’s longest piss.
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