The Bottle o’ Bitch

March 5, 2014 at 10:13 am (Cosmic Encounters, One Particular Angel)

“I’m kinda low on green. Would you bring me some flowers?” Angel is always so polite.

“How much you want? I can hit the dispensary before work.”

“Damn, I only got a twenty. Can you go small?”

“Heh.” I made it sound dirty. She smiled. “I got an idea. Keep your $20 and I’ll just bring you something.”

I’ve been around weed for nearly four decades now. I’ve never been into marketing; I sell groceries for a living, and all the pot dealers I knew ended up hating their clientele. I love my friends, and don’t want to see them like that, so I just don’t deal. But I’m also the guy who will go score you some, because I’m a sucker for a pretty face and I hate seeing anyone crabby.

Angel is getting girlfriend benefits, whether she realizes it or not. The sacks get fatter, I’ll slip things into her purse, etc… When she sends me to the dispensary, she has specific requests. I oblige those requests, but I also am a frugal weed-hustling SOB, so I kick in a little to get better deals. And I tax her, just like everybody else.

Except I keep her taxes, until a rainy day, then rain down on her the benefits of my squirrely ways. Much like the State of Oregon, I decide when you get your tax return.

Angel and I have been sharing little gifts, a medicated cookie here, a box of Girl Scout cookies there. (However, if her birth control pills are shaped like Fred Flintstone, I’m gonna have to bail…)

Bottle o' Bitch

Bottle o’ Bitch

For Christmas, Angel gave me an airtight bottle for storage of the green. “I thought about one with just a leaf on top, but then I saw The Hot Bitch and decided my guy needs a hot bitch. So there ya go!” The lid of the jar has a Playboy Bunny (blonde) on top. (Don’t tell Angel, but I’m going to superimpose her picture atop the bunny.) Of course, it became my immediate prized possession, and sits on my desk, showcasing only the finest sativa buds. Okay, maybe a hybrid or an Indica might sneak in there, but mostly I keep the peppiest upbeatest finest buds on display.

It’s also Angel’s bottle. Her “taxes” go in there, and when she only has a $20? Daddy can slip her enough blown-mind to keep her squinty and grinning until payday. And when she becomes a regular in my room? She can tap the stash without worrying, because it is hers. Her previous boyfriend once called her a “bag of bitches”. (I don’t see it, personally.) But since I have so much fun with that information, I have dubbed her stash container the Bottle ‘o Bitch.

When it came time to cross paths, she was walking with a co-worker. “Imma cutter.”

“That sounds like a major mental health issue. May I recommend a tranquilizer?” I was smiling, Angel wasn’t. “I’m a cutter” slowed down translates into “I’m going to cut her.” One of Angel’s underlings was being a handful.

“Why, hello sir! A pleasant day!” We shook hands, palming. Her eyes got wide when she felt the heft of her $20 bud. “Are you sure?” She lost the anger, but didn’t break character in front of her associate.

“You can hang on to the money a couple days, and I can reload then,” I said.

“NO.” She slipped the bill in my pocket, and gave my butt a squeeze. Man, I love it when she does that. I didn’t argue. I mentally filed the $20, it would go into a future bag, buying big so we can keep it small.


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