Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“So what happened?” I asked, intrigued.
“It was a deal the Kings struck with the Knights in the early eighties. By then, the weed industry wasn’t as profitable as other interests,” Caleb explained, rather diplomatically. “It became a pawn in our negotiations with the Knights.”
“And I got shut down,” Sybil added. “The eighties were all about coke—grotesque and garish, if you ask me. Weed wasn’t as in demand. What was once the shiny jewel in our crown somehow became nothing more than a rough pebble in our arson of collateral with the Knights.”
She looked at her grandson. “So, my favorite grandson, will you visit granddaddy’s cabin and see what’s growing out there by the river?”
Caleb and his grandmother shared a challenging stare before Caleb finally broke. “Fine, I’ll go and have a look.”
I saw Sybil’s eyes brighten with a mysterious glint. “Good!” She smacked her hands together. “Now that that ugly business is sorted, which one of you is going to tell me when my great-grandbaby is due?”
Caleb and I both looked at her, our mouths dropping open.
“You know?” Caleb asked.
“Oh, son, please. The MC grapevine is faster than any form of communication on this planet.”
“Who told you?”
“I ain’t no rat.” She raised an eyebrow at her grandson. “But get me some ganja from the river, and I might be open to bribery.”
CALEB
We drove out to my granddaddy’s cabin.
It was a simple cabin built by a man who appreciated and saw the value in simple things. One main room with a kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small laundry off to the side. Hutch Calley had built it in the seventies when he had a wife and two little boys. He and Sybil made plans here. Built the Kings of Mayhem here. Raised my dad and uncle here.
We climbed the steps to the back door and I unlocked it using the spare key I found in the terracotta planter on the porch. Inside, it was stuffy. It’d been a long time since I’d been out here. Months. Maybe even last year sometime.
As a kid I used to spend a lot of time here fishing with my brothers, running free through the fields of untouched land, racing our dog, and climbing trees. Granddaddy built us a treehouse on the far side of the property, and me and my brothers used to spend hours there, reading comics, telling stories and eventually smoking cigarettes stolen from the packets that were always lying about, begging to be taken by curious kids.
It was one of those cigarettes that saw the demise of the treehouse by fire when I was eight. We weren’t sure who was responsible, but I always suspected it was probably me. My daddy had been furious, but not my granddaddy. I think he knew I was responsible and didn’t want me feeling bad.
We were close. I used to love coming here and spending time with him. I was so much closer to him than my father, and I learned more from him than anyone else.
I opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the veranda and the sappy aroma of marijuana hit me right away. Walking to the railing I stared out at a sea of shamrock green leaves gently swaying in the late afternoon breeze.
Honey came up behind me and gasped, stunned at the sight of so many marijuana plants. “So this is what your grandma was talking about.”
“I don’t think she realizes how many there are,” I replied, just as stunned.
Timber floorboards creaked as I crossed the veranda and took the steps down to the riverbank. Here the plants thrived in the loamy soil. It was rich and super fertile, enhanced by wild bat guano and nutrients from the river water. The plants stood as tall as me, gently swaying in the late afternoon light.
“These plants are massive,” Honey whispered in awe and I turned to her. She ran a delicate finger over a huge, furry bud. “I feel like I’m in Jurassic Park.”
I grinned at her, a little in awe of the plants myself. There had to be at least thirty or forty of them, all fat and plump with emerald leaves and dark purple heads. The air was warm and heady with their pungent aroma.
When a gentle ripple of wind lifted the sweet aroma closer, an idea hit me.
“Come on,” I said, taking Honey’s hand in mine. “I’d better cut down some of these buds and get them dried out before Sybil decides I’m taking too long and starts self-medicating with bourbon shots and peyote chasers.”
HONEY
Despite the marijuana plant being in the trunk, we still drove to Grandma Sybil’s with the windows down because Caleb was worried about the affects the aroma would have on the baby. You know, essential oils and all that. I tried to reassure him that it was fine, that I was fine, that the baby was fine, but he insisted. And then when we got to Sybil’s, he also insisted I wash my hands because I had touched the impressive buds on one of the towering plants.