Renee Resumes Getting High

 

Renee Hodge eight-to-fives as a paralegal for Soden & Underlings. Her mornings are spent reiterating to clients that 'insanity is a defence, stupidity is not' and that they should plead guilty because deportation seems to be the only way to get a flight home, these days. At twelve, her boss will kick open his door, with whiskey in hand, to rant about 'kids these days', by which he means the baby-boomer generation because said boss is stuck in the fifties, suspenders and all. The boss will be unconscious between two and four o'clock, granting Renee two hours in which to side hustle.

Renee begrudges her job because it pays the bills and affords her collection of scooters: a Kymco People GTi, a Suzuki Address 110, the Eagle-Wing Cino 125 and the Manhattan 150G. She rides each one on a different occasion - work, social, family and errands. She derives the most enjoyment, however, just by contemplating them, bong in hand. Renee does not drive under the influence, once bitten, because the wide choice prompts stoned indecision.

Renee's dope of choice is El Dorado Green because it is really, really good. El Dorado Green is named after the provincial town which patented the strain, diversifying into cash crops and gambling because conquistadors persisted in drowning in the Amazon, scattering bus-loads of blunder for children to find.*

El Dorado Green's exclusivity means that it cannot be purchased from your humble dope peddler, but must instead be bartered for. Fortunately, in the two hours when her boss is passed out between whiskeys ventidue and ventitré, Renee does some under-the-table, off-the-books work writing illegal contracts. These contracts, written atop her desk, form the basis of laws consented to by parties involved and may one day grow in number sufficient to make a book.

Word on the street (rather: underground robot battles that tend to not involve many robots) is that Renee will write a contract in exchange for a quart of El Dorado Green. To consult with her, one must take the stairs to the roof of her building and abseil down to her window, which is what the Knights of the Galaxy Klaxon do. Ignatius, Rasmus and Poppery all hang from abseil rope by one straining belay device and Renee hoiks them in before all parties involved discover why such sharing is strongly not recommended.

'Fuck, fuck's sake, better have Dirty Granny.' Renee scrambles out of man pile. 'Ahem, I mean, how are you? How may I assist you?'

Ignatius lobs a quart onto the desk: 'Verily, we three seek to meld names, become one.'

Renee nods: 'Polygamous gay marriage. Not recognised by the state but by your people and your gods.'

Poppery: 'No, we want to be one person. Dude can't marry himself. That'd be weird.'

Diplomatic: 'Agreed.'

Ignatius: 'One mind in three brains. One identity in three persons. One name to put on the paperwork. Kieran.'

Rasmus: 'Yet we shall be referred to by our surname, like families of yore and in those Harry Potter movies. The-Knights-of-the-Galaxy-Klaxon.'

Renee takes out quill: 'Is this a tax thing?'

Poppery snorts: 'Tax?'

'Fair enough. And, uh, when was Kieran The-Knights-of-the-Galaxy-Klaxon birthed?'

Rasmus: 'Yesterday.'

Renee pauses: 'Is Kieran, uh, old enough to consent to this?'

 

* Get it? Blunder-buss?