So once upon a time in Texas, I was 18 years old and living with my parents as I finished high school and all that. Of my crew, although there was no real ownership there was myself, Patrick, a big teddy bear kinda guy, not to bright, but smooth with a great liver, a mullet and a decent personality, Jeremy , a tweeker punk rocker wanna be, Very not bright, great family social dysfunctional nice guy and brain the one I identified with the most. Shaved head, loyal good person. Well one night we here helping out a friend with a ride to dallas. I happen to have a 81 dodge ram van nick named the whale. A beast of a machine spray painted black to make it one color, bald tires a kenwood and house speaker sound system and two lazy boy recliners in the back for comfort as we rode around in our various escapades. Well, we had this one drug dealer friend who needed a lift to pick up a pound of smoke and we were not ding anything and more than happy to oblige once again. The turn out was we would smoke all the way there about an hour and back plus get money for gas. On this particular occasion, we had just gotten paid so we were picking up a qp for ourselves taking advantage of the volume discounts. So the drive up was rather un eventful, the passing of the bong, rolling of the joints and finally we were at our destination. Like any good drug dealing neighbor hood, it was full of some of the most run down gang baggin homes you’d ever seen. You couldn’t help but see a police car on every corner. It took about 4 blocks and 5 squad cars to penetrate the buzz enough to realize that there were way to many cops rolling around in the neighborhood. In drive by fashion, we dropped our buddy off with cash and faith and continued to circle the blocks counting the cops and getting nervous. The eye sore that my van was, was surly spotted and tagged as not supposed to be there, but there we remained. We had a job to do, a score to make, and after a few more passes there’s our bud, shopping bag in hand, waiting for the pick up. Jumping in the shot gun we took off, tiring to remain calm and fit in, a van full of white kids in a Mexican neighborhood high as a kite and packing 1.25 pounds of Jamaican red hair. Like a stealthy snake we slid from the scene through the torrent of cops and back onto the freeway to home. Shaken and stirred we were happy to get away with our freedom joking of the tension like a coat on a hot summer day. In true relax the back fashion the 18 grafix water bong that stayed with the whale was loaded up and we quickly samples our score. Much to our surprise we were in for a bonus. While inside, our good buddy picked up half a sheet of golden shield lsd. The part was on. Patrick’s house was the target for our festival of mind altering chemicals as it had been many a time before. Being seasoned veterans, about fifteen minutes into the hour ride back we dropped hits with smiles timing about an hour for it to kick. For the remainder of the ride the sky got dark and the bong continued to take its turn round and round the van, the huge bowl that would hole an eighth cashing out only to be loaded by another partner with a pile of grass. Now the town I lived in had a population of about 12 thousand and stretched about 12 miles from end to end. Pete, our drug dealer friend lived on the on the one end coming into town and Patrick, Jeremy and I lived on the other, first order of business was to drop pete so he can go on with his night witch was done with out much fan fare and we were off again. About 20 minutes till the walls breath and the flesh melts. Now there were two ways to get to our subdivision from where we were at. Path one would take us straight through town, and out the other side only to make a left right into the estates we called home. The other, would take us through town and out of the city limits into a very rural subdivision called the trails. Once I moved to Texas and met Patrick, it literally took me 50 bong hitting drives through the trails to learn the labyrinth of roads that made the path over through the one lane rolling hills dead ends, steep grades parts of unpaved gravel and trailer homes to the other side. This was imperative as my home was on one side of the trails and pats house was effectively on the other. Conveniently since this area was out of city limits, as limited as the city was the cops never patrolled through here, and with the maze taking lasting about 5 miles it was the perfect private spot to load a bowl, sip the bong or smoke a joint as you went from one side to the other. With this in mind, as well as our inability to smoke the grass at Pats house, as his old school father would kick each and everyone of our asses in turn, we chose to pass through the trails getting back to pats house and take advantage of the slow drive. Before getting into the trails there was a single gas station sitting right on the edge of town. Driving right up and parking smooth Pat jumped out for munchies smokes and sodas to last the night. While waiting in the truck, a blacked out police car slid up to the left of us about 50 feet off. Might have been there the whole time I don’t know I was very on the high side. Nervous just a little, I was relieved to see Patrick on his way out goods in hands. Putting the truck in reverse awaiting his arrival I noticed another blacked out curser slide past the gas pumps behind us. Now I was definitely spooked it was time to leave before someone got hurt. Specifically me and my new QP of weed. Pat in the truck we started backing out as a third blacked out car pulled into the gas station parking lot. Making a careful left we got back on the rural rout and started heading out of town to the trails. Only about 3 miles to the entrance it wasn’t far doing 50, but in looking in the rearview my stomach dropped as the coppers headlights came on and he began to follow. About ¾ of a mile a head with out him closing, I sped up just a little as to not pick of his radar detector and pop us for speeding but definitely trying to get out of the city limits and into the trails. Time slowed down until finally we got to the trails and turned in, I immediately punched it, and drove as fast as was safe enough on the twisting turning back roads. Like a coiled serpent the road changed elevation and turned back on itself and looking back we saw clearly the police car follow us into the maze. Being out of city limits as we were we knew we were fucked. There was no reason for him to follow unless he was out to get us. Our minds scrambled like a dear in the headlights and tried not to panic. Bu unanimous decision, we decided that we were getting pulled and we had to ditch the weed or else get pulled searched found and jailed. Now this was by far not the first time we had run into the cops. In such a small town they all new my name, my van, my friends and our habits. As I continued to drive pat wrapped the brick of grass in a paper back and tied it shut with some duct tape found in the van. It was decided. We were committed, it was going out the window. ON the next turn there was a street lamp an excellent marker, the cop was closing but the turns and tress protected up from view, and then it was gone. Out the window. Four high guys memorizing the location at 40 mph full of fear and loathing. In another 2 miles we would be out of the maze and the it would only be a quick ½ mile into city limits and safe at Patrick’s house. Though that was not to be. Upon reaching the exit of the maze a squad car sitting all dark was waiting for us on the other side. As if casually, he blinked his lights and with no other cars for miles, we knew it was us. Using my blinker like a good traffic boy I pulled over only to be removed from the truck by the officer. The air had gotten cold and the flannel I was wearing, yeah it was 92 flannel was cool then, wasn’t doing shit for me. Standing behind my van, freezing, I glanced onto my chrome bumper caught the blink of the blue police light and realized I had starting tripping. In my angst with the cops I had completely forgotten I had eating 2 hits of premium lsd. With this realization it began to intensify. Mr copper came over while running my license and started making small talk, I didn’t hear him, I was watching his mustache crawl up and over his face like the kid with the braces in poltergeist. “your licensed is expired” floated to me from somewhere. I’ll have to write you a ticket” followed. Relieved and still paranoid pupils the size of baseballs in the glare of his cursers spot light, I murmured something about staying in tonight at Patrick’s house anyway and asking how to get it fixed. Ironically, Patrick had gotten pulled just a couple of weeks ago and gotten let of for the very same thing. I casually wondered if this was the same cop. Thinking I wouldn’t be walking back to pats house, he asked if anyone in the van had a valid license. I said pat did and he went to the shotgun position and asked him if he had. Responding in the affirmative, I gave no care that pat would drive my van and we would be more than happy to park it for the interim of getting my license renewed. Jumping back In the warm van I continued to shiver with cold looking to the other and confirming the truth that we were all frying very nicle now. Slowly we left the scene and got back to pats house only to go in side to let things cool off. After all, we were not going to sleep for the next 12-18 hours and we had no smoke but the fresh quarter pound sitting out there back in the trails with the wall breathing and the colors starting to run.