Craig launched the shortcut to his Chrome browser with a practiced click. His old, ragged office chair creaked as he leaned forward. Without thought, he opened the link to his local Craigslist section and went to the 'casual encounters' section. The young man brushed a few oily strands of thin brown hair away from his eyes as he browsed the 'women for men' listings. He picked at a few acne scars absentmindedly with his left hand while he filtered through the ads. Only once had he had luck with the site - if it could be called luck. He soon learned that if a dollar sign appeared anywhere in the ad, the lady expected to be paid for her troubles. So, rather than pay the $200 fee for an hour's worth of sex (well, to be honest, more like 5 minutes of sex and 55 minutes of working to get it up again), Craig enjoyed five minutes of verbal abuse where he learned (according to Jane Doe) that no woman would ever touch such a scrawny, pimply, buck-toothed asshole too cheap to pay for what he'd never get otherwise. She left pissed and he stayed home, still a virgin. At 24 years of age.
"Fake," he said out loud. "Holy fuck, she's huge. No. No." He paused. "Is that... is that a dick in her... oh, yeah. Tranny. No. Dammit." He nearly closed the browser in frustration but paused when he saw an ad labeled "Mary Jane Wants To Play." As naive as he was, even he knew what "Mary Jane" meant. Craig's eyes focused into the distance as he considered his options. It was a warm, nearly Summer Friday night and he was bored out of his mind - as bored as he was every single day after a shift in the kitchen of the local IHOP. He pondered. He wondered. He hesitated. Boredom won out in the end. No new games on the PS3, his one semi-friend was off at his girlfriend's house getting laid and here Craig sat. The thought of trying weed for the first time was thrilling and, he decided, why the hell not?
His email was answered within minutes with a set of prices and an address. Craig was only slightly creeped out to learn the place was a few blocks from his apartment. He knew the location and was glad it was still light out - it wasn't the best area around. The prices were surprisingly good; he'd expected to be reamed for it but it seemed like a little bag of the stuff was cheaper than going to the movies.
It took barely a moment for Craig to find a clean white t-shirt to go with his favorite pair of blue jeans and then, with keys and wallet in hand, he left. As he stepped outside, he lifted his face to the sun, eyes closed, breathing in the warm air. The wind ruffled his hair and he grinned, with his mouth closed to hide his overly large front teeth. It was a habit formed when he was old enough to realize people made fun of him for it. Craig paused at the ATM near his house and then walked the three blocks over to a small blue house with a chain link fence and bars on the window. Beer cans of random brands littered the lawn of the house like cylindrical buildings toppled in some alcoholic apocalypse. He opened the gate and stepped up to the door, knocking loud enough to be heard over the booming music playing inside.
Craig raised his hand to knock again but the door suddenly opened, unleashing a torrent of dubstep. The man standing at the door was a little under six feet tall and dressed in a black t-shirt with a white skull symbol. He had short hair, a stubble of a beard and green eyes. Craig thought he looked almost thirty years old but realized he could be way younger; he'd always been bad at guessing ages.
"Yeah?" The man asked. "What do you want?"
Craig felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Goosebumps marched down a line from his neck to his arms. Aw man, Craig thought. Why the hell did I do this? I don't know these people. I don't know a damn thing about weed. This guy could freaking murder me and nobody would probably bat an eye. For all I know, he's a serial killer and this is how he finds his victims. Dammit. Craig stammered in sudden fear, "H... Hey - I, umm, I answered the ad. The ad on Craigslist."
The man was nodding. "Aw, yeah, man. Craig, right? Come on in. You look okay."
Craig swallowed and stepped past the man when he opened the door wider, blinking to take in the darkened room. It smelled like old soggy breadcrumbs and beer with a hint of dried pee. A large TV hung on the wall in front of a massive black leather couch. More beer cans and bags of chips hid in corners and on tables around the room. The window blinds were all closed and there was a faint haze of smoke lingering in the air. It stunk enough to make Craig's stomach feel slightly queasy.
"It's just me and John. Well, and Jenny's around somewhere. So I've been told. I'm Dave. How much you bring?" The man (Dave) shambled over to a bookshelf near the TV.
"I - sixty bucks." The throbbing music, darkness and smell of weed was disorienting and he could feel the edges of a headache coming on. The sooner he was out, he decided, the better. He hadn't planned on spending so much at once but the thought of coming back here (if he decided he liked smoking) didn't make him feel comfortable.
"Oh, cool, cool. What kind you want?" Dave dug through a few boxes on the shelves, muttering to himself about needing to buy various strains of weed before he ran out.
"I don't know. Whatever's good?"
The man turned to Craig. "Whoa, bruh, is this your first time? You never smoked before? Do you even know how?" He grinned in that particular way people do when someone is about to embarrass themselves - equal parts condescending and amusement.
"No. I just thought - don't you just roll it up and smoke it?"
The man's grin grew wider and Craig thought he caught the edge of something else in it - hunger. Hunger of a kind. "Hey man, it's cool. I got just the thing for you. Why don't you hang out and we'll all smoke together. I'll show you how it works." Dave turned to the kitchen and yelled, "Hey John! Bring some pipes, man. We gonna smoke some fuckin' weed."
