chief smokesome – a moment in history ·
18 June 04

The weekend was, well, to put it lightly, a fucking great laugh.

Jynx and I smoked some, just as Chief Smokesome once said to the Indian’s that entered his tipi and asked him,

“Chief Smokesome, my sheep are dying from some viral disease that we cannot control, what in the name of the spirits can we do?”

Chief Smokesome, sitting on his couch-cum-chair, stretched his back and yawned. He cleaned his mouth as though he was chewing, yakking like a cow on the cud. Chief Smokesome rubbed his eyes having awoken from a wonderful slumber. He wasn’t particularly fond of giving advice, however, he did have to – it was the only way he gained any respect, and for that, his stash.

He was upright now, sitting back, stretching his legs, letting the blood flow back down and stretching his now tired veins and capillaries. The first thought that came to him was, “I wonder how we can fit a horse in a cigar.” As this thought faded, he tried to focus on the farmer in front of him. His eyes were hazy, and he didn’t quite recognise where he was. But he thought he would give it a shot, if it meant he could continue smoking and just go back to his comfortable sitting/lying position.

already thinking of cow’s that ran as fast as cheetahs, and bears that danced to the sound of a drum beating at 150bpm

“Well” he began, with a huge, roaring yawn – out of which was expelled a spray of spittle trapped between the lips and teeth. The farmer, quietly, wiped his own face of the spray and watched, patiently, Chief Smokesome’s response.

Smokesome got up on his feet. He lifted part of the tipi entrance, and felt the warmth of the sun touch him like the embrace of a bosom blessed female. His eyes were not so favourable to the light, as he carefully flicked them open momentarily. Looking outwards, he found he could see the hazy bright sky, a hazy amalgamation of people and hazy movement of some hazy animals.

He stood outside, and roared another yawn, adjusting his balls in the process. Smokesome scratched his right arm; it was a little red, perhaps due to ants biting him. It didn’t bother him much, as he was more interested in what shape it represented. He picked up the dirt below him, and roared his yawn on it. As it blew away from his breath, he found a coin. It looked foreign, and it just happened to be chance that he found it within his hand then.

He had a habit of checking the dirt outside to decide whether or not it was a good day to make decisions. If the dirt was dry, it was good. If it was wet or moist, he would refuse to give advice. No one quite knew how the process worked, but whenever he did give advice, it, by some illogical miracle, worked.

The dirt was dry and he returned to his tipi.

“Well, fuck man, I need another smoke. Bare with me doode, I’m pretty shattered, and I need another take off”

The farmer, as most people in the mobile village agreed, pondered as to how Smokesome could smoke so much. He would smoke bushes worth in a day. His appetite always grew, naturally as would be the case after smoking, but his appetite to smoke never waned. It could never be filled. He also tried other materials, commonly found, but he always had a fondness for this particular smoke.

People were happy with his advice, even though sometimes his advice sometimes took several weeks to complete. You could sit in front of Smokesome, and he would begin his sentence. You could come back several hours later, and he would not have continued his sentence for perhaps a further few hours.

The people wondered as to whether this was a ploy to have the problem resolve itself, or whether his advice actually made some difference. Was he teaching them unquenchable patience? Was he teaching them about self-reflection, and to use their brains? Was he just smoking a lot and chatting a load of crap that just somehow made sense? No one could be a 100% certain.

Smokepathy was coined by the two smokers after they exchanged thoughts on a telepathic level, through the process of smoking

Smokesome, now back in his tipi, asked the farmer to return in a few hours. Meanwhile, he woke up the three ladies in his bed opposite him, and proposed more sex while they all smoked some. The girls agreed, and they continued their sexual desires until the late night, when all three were asked to leave. Smokesome needed new girls, fresh girls. He had been with these girls for several hours, and was already tired of them.

It was late when Smokesome’s friend, Smokealot, came into the tipi. Smokealot and Smokesome had known each other for a while, and could communicate without smoking, but smoking only expanded the boundaries of their already ingenious plans. Their ideas would work amazing well, but if they smoked, their ideas would be legendary.

Smokealot and Smokesome mulled over their positions in their tribe. They decided that it was perhaps time to move on, and help others in the world who had not smoked any. Helping these peasant farmers was fine, but they had bigger ambitions. They wanted to spread the word, travel, mate with women of other distinctions, all while spreading the word of smoking. They knew it wasn’t good for everyone, but they knew there would be a change in the world if they were able to introduce this wonder to the world.

After Smokealot left, Smokesome invited back the farmer. As the farmer came in, Smokesome looked outwards and called at four young ladies, who had just come in from the North. They looked shyly at Smokesome, who just grinned at them and let them know that once he was done with the farmer, he would expect them to enter promptly.

The farmer was now anxious for some answers. What could he do? His animals were dying, and he couldn’t cull the newly born as they were not fully grown. Smokesome sat down, and smoked some.

[zz93]

“Well, farmer. Welcome back here, to me, my place, my home. I like to get laid, a lot, but that isn’t relevant to you. However, I think it’s important that you realise that although I am helping you, I would prefer to be laid by the four pretty ladies out there. I don’t particularly want to help, but who else would you go to for advice? I need to expand my franchise. I was thinking, “Smokesome Advice” or something equally two-pronged in its message. What say you?”

Was he just smoking a lot and chatting a load of crap that just somehow made sense?

A puzzled-look appeared on the farmer’s face. He scratched his neck, which was a prelude to some tension appearing across his forehead. His brows caved in, and his eyes seemed to fire up. “LISTEN YOU FUCK! What the hell are you playing at? Just give me some fucking advice will you!”

Smokesome raised one eyebrow, and sniggered. He’s been down this road before, he’s heard about the impatience and arrogance of those that wish things to happen now. Smokesome had honed the technique of waiting, he was never in rush for anything, other than to smoke. And even then, he took his time. When Smokealot and Smokesome got together, the entire village would stand still. It was the effect of the smoke emitting from Smokesome’s tipi, perhaps. They couldn’t put their finger on it, but when the two got together, the whole village was calm.

He took another drag on the smoke, and placed it in a little container.

“Smoke some”
“What?”
“I said, smoke some.”

Smokesome handed the container to the farmer, and the farmer took a drag. He coughed harshly as Smokesome slapped the farmer on the back repeatedly. The farmer took some of the yak’s milk, and groaned.

After some 20 minutes or so, Smokealot entered the tipi.

“Hmm doode, prolly not a good time.”
“Doode, Smokesome, if it’s one thing I know, it’s ALWAYS a good time”

Smokesome and Smokealot exchanged a self-referential laugh within that exchange of words. Words which the farmer was oblivious too. The farmer was now much more relaxed, and placed his arms as though they were support behind his back.

The first thought that came to him was, “I wonder how we can fit a horse in a cigar”

“Ah man. You were right, I feel a lot better. The thing is, what’s really been bothering me is that wife. I mean, I’m bored yeah, and this animal crisis just means I spend more time away from her. I don’t even mind to be honest. I see these younger ladies, and I think, “I wish I wasn’t married”, and I know it’s wrong, but that is what’s really bothering me.”

Smokesome and Smokealot exchanged views on the matter through a process of Smokepathy. Smokepathy was coined by the two smokers after they exchanged thoughts on a telepathic level, through the process of smoking. Smokealot spoke….

“Doode, you need to dump that biatch and find yourself some pussy that you wanna fuck. Cuz if you keep pounding your old bitch, you’ll become gay, maybe. Or worse yet, you’ll turn into a fucking alien and the spirits will chase you with the fat of a dead hyena until your mother raises herself from the dead and sprays blood from her mouth into a cup of yak’s milk, which YOU will then have to drink.”

Smokesome was never overly keen on Smokealot’s smoking speeches, if only because the reaction by the listener was often one of constant fear, paranoia or, in rare cases, something good. Smokesome had smoke in his eyes which watered. Smokealot took this as a sign as approval for a speech. “Thanks doode” he appreciated to Smokesome who was a little confused and already thinking of cow’s that ran as fast as cheetahs, and bears that danced to the sound of a drum beating dolphin at 150bpm.

As Smokealot and Smokesome drifted into their own worlds, the farmer had by this time left. He had taken heed of the advice given and asked his wife to leave, who was more than happy to as she was screwing another farmer. While all this was going on, Smokealot and Smokesome were still in their dream worlds. It was late when they snapped out of their trance and realised the farmer was no longer there.

“What were talking about?”
“Er…fucked if I know”
“Hmmmm….another?”
“You read my mind! You fockkin genius!”

When Smokealot and Smokesome got together, the entire village would stand still.

The girls had apparently arrived and equally left promptly. They had attempted to speak to both Smokesome and Smokealot, who were otherwise occupied in a world unknown to the rest. Eventually they left, not being able to catch the attention of either. Smokealot, at this point was on the floor, holding on tightly to a child’s toy and shouting “Yeah! Yeah!”

Smokesome, on the other hand, had written around 35 parchments of illegible writing and pictures which verged on the incoherent. This had apparently concerned the girls, and accounted for their prompt departure.

Tomorrow was another day, and as ever, Smokesome only had one message of advice: “Smoke some.”