Peter looked left, then right. Seeing the coast is clear, he casually, or as casually as he could, walked out from behind the tree. He placed his hands in his pockets. In his left pocket, he felt the cool ceramic pipe against his hand. In the right, his hand grasped the small baggie.
Peter was in the park. A local treasure. Lush green trees speckled the impossibly green grass, patches of colourful flowers interrupting the sea of tiny blades. The structure Peter was walking towards, however, wasn't so beautiful. Drab grey stone makes up the walls of the building. Peter walked to a door, decorated by a blue sign, depicting a man on it. He pushed it open and stepped in.
The lights come on. White florescent burn Peter's eyes momentarily. He blinks as his sight settles, showing him the off-white tiles of the bathroom. The grey stalls stand in a row beside the urinals, making the back wall. A line of sinks on the adjacent wall make the picture of the bathroom complete.
With the light settled, Peter saw the graffiti, the usual "FUCK THE PIGS" and "HAIL SATAN". Scourge of the city, says the mayor. Nobody does anything about it. Nobody seems to come to this bathroom anymore. Good.
Peter crossed to a stall, the farthest one down. The handicapped stall, he thought, the goddamn hotel suite of bathroom stalls.
He trapped himself in the stall. Making sure the door was latched, he sat down on the porcelain throne. Then, he pulled out the pipe, holding it up. Examining it. The comforting way the light shone off it. The musky smell. Each flaw in it a reminder that it was made by hand. With love. And boy, did he love this thing.
Peter pulled out the baggy, the musty, dank, earthy smell of marijuana escaping, dissipating into the air. Reefer, pot, weed, Mary-Jane, grass. Call it what you like, but Peter loved it, no matter the name. He opened up the baggie, which was really just a small bag used for packaging the earbuds you get with mp3 players, and took a pinch of the devil's lettuce. He carefully pack it into the bowl of the pipe, placing the baggie on his lap.
Confident in his work, Peter reached into his pocket. He pulled out the red plastic Bic lighter, and held it over the opening of the pipe. Moment of truth, he thought as he flicked the flint wheel of the lighter.
As soon as the flame appeared, he began to inhale deeply. The air sucked in quickly changed from clear to smoky. After a few seconds of sustained inhaling, Peter moved his lips from the mouthpiece, holding his breath tightly. Soon, he let his mouth open, but only to let more air in, forcing the smoke in his mouth down his trachea.
After ten seconds (one Mississippi two Mississippi) of holding it in, Peter exhaled. The thick smoke escaped, floating up to the ceiling of the bathroom. He watched it press against the tiles above, and gave a little chuckle.
Getting lit in the handicapped stall. If there's a hell, I'm going to it.
Smokin' In the Boy's Room
Silver Dragon Academy; Content warning: Drug usage
Smokin' In the Boy's Room
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Egads. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Madelyn had been jogging in the park when she had to go to the bathroom, and ran to the concrete structure that Madelyn was pretty sure that it only existed so people didn't use the bushes. She arrived just in time to see Peter Campbell enter the men's room. She knew of Peter and his "hobby." She didn't care. Even with her aspirations to be in law enforcement she was of the opinion that Marijuana should be legal.
As she got closer Madelyn could confirm his actions. Smelling the combination of squashed skunk and dog shit. She laughed as she walked past the door to reach the women's restroom. If the stick figure with a skirt wasn't enough someone wrote on the door,
"Biches & Hoes." She pushed open the door and inside wasn't much better. Stalls and walls covered with notes about who loves who forever, who's a slut, and which man's no good. Madelyn considered holding it until she got home, but sucked it up.
>>><<<
When Madelyn left the bathroom she figured Peter was still up to it by the smell. When she turned she was surprised to see a cop car in the parking lot with the one on the passenger side getting out. She turned around to go to the men's room.
This is silly. I owe him nothing. Regardless she opened the door, and teared up from the overwhelming stench.
"Hey. Just so you know there's cops here, so you'll want to leave." Madelyn took her own advice and jogged away.
(Madelyn Conner continued in Fate Bash)
(Timeline confirmed by OP)
As she got closer Madelyn could confirm his actions. Smelling the combination of squashed skunk and dog shit. She laughed as she walked past the door to reach the women's restroom. If the stick figure with a skirt wasn't enough someone wrote on the door,
"Biches & Hoes." She pushed open the door and inside wasn't much better. Stalls and walls covered with notes about who loves who forever, who's a slut, and which man's no good. Madelyn considered holding it until she got home, but sucked it up.
>>><<<
When Madelyn left the bathroom she figured Peter was still up to it by the smell. When she turned she was surprised to see a cop car in the parking lot with the one on the passenger side getting out. She turned around to go to the men's room.
This is silly. I owe him nothing. Regardless she opened the door, and teared up from the overwhelming stench.
"Hey. Just so you know there's cops here, so you'll want to leave." Madelyn took her own advice and jogged away.
(Madelyn Conner continued in Fate Bash)
(Timeline confirmed by OP)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Acidic. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
The lucid feeling of intoxication washed over Peter like warm water. The comforting smell of the pot hanging in the air, the dank smell of it causing a smile to curl his lips. He giggled softly. God, he was ripped.
He looked over at the wall of his stall. Pictures of male genitalia and expletives adourn the surface, and even a short stanza based on defecation. Peter giggled again, reading the poem over. A few inches from the poem, Peter noticed an empty spot on the stall's wall. He quickly checked his pocket.
Pulling out the mechanical pencil, he swallowed heavily. He had never graffitied before. Oddly enough, the idea of being caught scribbling on a bathroom stall mortified him, as opposed to the thought of him being caught in a public washroom with a baggie of bud.
Carefully, he moved the pencil along the surface. The lines left behind were sloppy, not only because of his impaired judgement, but because of the angle he was writing. The finished product was messy, crooked, but legible. It read;
"If a man who cannot count finds a four-leaf clover, is he lucky?"
Peter chuckled. He was never much of a luck man (the only clover he was interested in has 9 leaves), but he supposed that this would stump some Joe coming in to do his business.
Suddenly, he heard the door of the bathroom open. He yelped and fumbled, dropping the pipe on his lap, the ashen remains spilled onto his jeans. He cursed and wiped the ashes.
Some girl warned him about cops. Cops? Who cares about cops? He was conducting important quality time with hi-
Cops?
COPS?!
OH SHIT!
He quickly shoved his drugs and drug related paraphernalia into his pockets, not caring if the pipe spilled more cannabis into his pocket. The pencil clattered onto the floor without him even noticing. He quickly exited the still, to see his anonymous lookout had escaped. Probably for the best.
He crossed over to the door of the bathroom, and opened the door slowly by pressing against it with a shoulder. Hands in his pockets, he peeked out. He saw the cops the mysterious girl mentioned, one climbing back into the cruiser. They drove off, probably to something better than busting some kid getting high in the park bathroom.
Fuck, he lost his buzz.
Shrugging, Peter left the bathroom. He'd save the rest of his weed for later. For now, he was content to wander the park.
(Peter Campbell continued in If Music Be the Food of Love)
He looked over at the wall of his stall. Pictures of male genitalia and expletives adourn the surface, and even a short stanza based on defecation. Peter giggled again, reading the poem over. A few inches from the poem, Peter noticed an empty spot on the stall's wall. He quickly checked his pocket.
Pulling out the mechanical pencil, he swallowed heavily. He had never graffitied before. Oddly enough, the idea of being caught scribbling on a bathroom stall mortified him, as opposed to the thought of him being caught in a public washroom with a baggie of bud.
Carefully, he moved the pencil along the surface. The lines left behind were sloppy, not only because of his impaired judgement, but because of the angle he was writing. The finished product was messy, crooked, but legible. It read;
"If a man who cannot count finds a four-leaf clover, is he lucky?"
Peter chuckled. He was never much of a luck man (the only clover he was interested in has 9 leaves), but he supposed that this would stump some Joe coming in to do his business.
Suddenly, he heard the door of the bathroom open. He yelped and fumbled, dropping the pipe on his lap, the ashen remains spilled onto his jeans. He cursed and wiped the ashes.
Some girl warned him about cops. Cops? Who cares about cops? He was conducting important quality time with hi-
Cops?
COPS?!
OH SHIT!
He quickly shoved his drugs and drug related paraphernalia into his pockets, not caring if the pipe spilled more cannabis into his pocket. The pencil clattered onto the floor without him even noticing. He quickly exited the still, to see his anonymous lookout had escaped. Probably for the best.
He crossed over to the door of the bathroom, and opened the door slowly by pressing against it with a shoulder. Hands in his pockets, he peeked out. He saw the cops the mysterious girl mentioned, one climbing back into the cruiser. They drove off, probably to something better than busting some kid getting high in the park bathroom.
Fuck, he lost his buzz.
Shrugging, Peter left the bathroom. He'd save the rest of his weed for later. For now, he was content to wander the park.
(Peter Campbell continued in If Music Be the Food of Love)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Egads. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.