Stepping into the dispensary was like entering a warm cave. I shouldered past the rows of glassy paraphernalia, concentrates, and edibles. In the back of the store sat a wizened old man who peered rheumatically over his drooping bottom eyelids.
Thunder boomed and the lights flickered: the room seemed to lose dimension, shadows leaping in as light fled, as if to collect around the old man.
“It’s dangerous to go alone,” he said. Glistening on the counter was a rapier-like nugget, glowing green and steady amidst the unreliable gloom.
I took the bud reverently, raising it high above my head. I felt powerful, impelled, driven! I was ready to fight the world! I dashed to the door, threw it open, when I heard, “It’ll be ten dollars, sir.”