by Mark Figueroa | bm
This is part II in a 3-part sci-fi, fantasy short story detailing how Kalcyphir discovered and cultivated “Pakistani Chitral Kush (PCK)” by mistake because of a miscommunication.
Kal is an immortal being who gets up to silly shit and normally has his very non-immortal friends keep him from getting into too much trouble. Kal experiences time differently and forgoes norms/customs at his own expense to do as he pleases. He’s immortal. He doesn’t care.
“… presence of THC.”
A stoned man encased in stone. Interesting.
Several staff members scurried about, tinkering with everything in their periphery. Should be more careful.
“What is it?” an employee asked.
I shook my head. Both the property and site managers followed me to a tent near metal crates. Pickaxes, shovels, axes and rope billowed out of the boxes. Organized. I should compliment them, I thought. Nah. They’ll think I’m weird. Ah, well, who cares. “Ay, good job. Looks good. This stuff here, I mean. It’s impressive.”
“Thanks,” both managers responded in unison. My site manager looked at my portfolio manager. Are they competing or screwing? They know something.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Whatever it is. As long as no one died and there are no legal ramifications, it’s fine.”
They stayed quiet. I dropped into a chair.
“Do I owe money? Government? Scammers? Politicians? Investors?” I asked, crossing my arms and shaking my head.
I stretched my feet out and sat back.
These people. Everything is a crisis, until there’s an actual crisis.
The rug isn’t big enough for whatever they’re tryina’ sweep. Straight madness.
I could be looking at bikini magazines, reading books or meditating. I’d be dating the hot ones if I didn’t know better. Oh well. The brothel is close by. I’ll be fine, I thought.
“Speak up. What is it? It’s cool.”
“Well, it’s the stoned guy — I mean, the stoned man, person– you know? I think,” the property manager said. He continued rambling on.
My site manager chimed in, “You, little–that’s not even accurate. We had most certainly discussed—”
I saw their strings: Vanity. The desire to stamp their name on things. Seething insecurities that only makes them big in small rooms, or behind barriers.
Circular conversations. Avoiding accountability.
“I could be reading,” I announced. They continued on. My patience wore thin. Damn her skirt is short. Business then brothel. “Hey, that smoke, can we identify it? — ” I asked, interrupting their squabble. “That thing in his hand. What is it?”
“That’s part of what we need to address,” the site manager responded, shaking her head. She pulled a jewel-studded, element-resistant, diamond-encrusted notebook from a dusty burlap bag. Both managers coughed. Better play along.
She clicked her pen and scribbled something. He leaned in. They both blushed, and then exchanged dirty looks. Cute.
“Continue, please,” I demanded. I leaned forward, resting both arms on the armrests of my chair.
The site manager turned a few pages back. “Samples from the inert gas we extracted from within the emerald slab suggests the plant is native to this region. We asked a few locals from the university to analyze the data for us. We’ll know more in a few days,” she said. She paused and sigeds. Her pen shone in the sun. Swipe. A crow snatched it.
“Kaa-Aaah! Kaa-Aaaah! Kerooo!” the crow cackled. The crow of chaos. I shook my head and trie not to laugh. I see. She wants me to do something. Let’s see where it goes.
My site manager shook her head in disbelief. I can’t — of all the times. That’s never happened to before. I’m stunned,” she said to my property manager. “Has that happened to you, Chrono?” she asked.
A flying cat swooped past the twinkling crow. The site manager’s pen fell onto her lap. She laughed in disbelief. Chaos’ silhouette leaned in over her shoulder. Chaos pressed her finger to her lips.
BOOM! THUD! CRASH!
“Oh no! Oh god!” Several employees screamed.
“Mr. Kal!” yelled Hans. “Shall we go investigate, sir?” he asked, leaping to his feet. He pointed his chin at the stoned stone man’s direction. “Coming, Marle?” he asked. Chrono and Marle sprinted to the ruckus.
I walked over after the crowd had a chance to get killed by anything that might arose suspicion of my immortality. Revealing the contract will turn them to apples.
Beautiful red apples with gold thorns and tiny emerald spikes. More assets, all things considered. People always want these. They can get a wish or two if they learn how to get Chaos’ attention.
“Ma’am, how should we treat the stumbling, stoned stone man?” a random employee asked.
“Dude. Holy shit. Holy shit. No way. We-fuckin’-did it, bruh!” the man said into his rectangular communicator. It looked like a portable television with a bright screen. It was flat and palm-sized. Emerald slabs lined the man’s feet.
“Name?” a member of the security detail asked. He pointed a standard issue sidearm in the stoned man’s face.
“Yo, chill. Do that shit again,” the stoned man said, gesturing the pistol away from his face. “Anyway, I was doing something and my boy bet me I couldn’t get so high that I time-travelled to 194–Holy shit! Kal?”
I shook my head and stared at the man’s face. He looked like me. Sort of. More like a twin. Just shorter hair. No beard. Otherwise, similar enough. Marle and Chrono stared at me and then at the stoned man.
“I need a minute,” Marle said. “Maybe five.”
“Take ten,” Chrono interjected. “I’m going to smoke some hashish. I’m not high enough for this.” Chrono shook his head. His eyes said nope – I don’t wanna know.
The excitement ended. The crowd watched us. Waiting.
“Kal,” the man said. “You don’t know me yet, man. New York City. 20XX. Crazy times, man.” He leaned in to give me some kind of hand hug. I nodded and brushed his palm away. “Fair enough, man. I get it. We don’t know each other yet. You’ll trust me with your life someday. I’ll write about you. Also, Chaos said to bring you this.” He handed me a coffee can filled with sepia-tone flaxseeds. “I have to hop a flight to London, then to New York. You said I’d have two days to teach you how to care for it. Let’s get to it. Also, how much do you know about terpenes?” the man asked.
I shrugged. “What’s your name?”
“Friends call me Jersey. I go by Mark. Family calls me Anthony. Depends on the room,” he says, shrugging. “Look, just call me Jersey or Jerz.” He tapped his watch. “See this shit. Made on fucking Mars, Kal. Made from pieces of Earth’s moon on fucking Mars, man.”
I shrugged. “Let’s go, then, Jerz.”
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