Shane Pollard came back into the bedroom and handed the water pipe to Phony Millions. Phony toked the stinky hashish and cast a suspicious eye at his schoolmate. The pungent odor formed a haze, mingling with the stray frenetic sounds of John Coltrane’s Sun Ship screaming from the Hi-Fi, and drifting up to the midnight blue, star spangled ceiling of Phony’s room. The hash started to kick in, but was tempered by some almost identifiable base element.
“Dude, this hash tastes funny.”
Shane sat Indian style on the shag carpet, wearing chinos, an Izod T-shirt and loafers. He took the water pipe from Phony.
“I mixed my poop in,” said Shane with a casual look from his droopy eyes. He took a hit and passed it back.