The light had gone out. Despite G’s best efforts, the click of the spark created no fire above his polished metal fire starter. Twisting it about in his clammed up hands G cursed the gift he had received on the anniversary of the opening of his paraphernalia shop whilst examining the Gothic collection of gargolic heads that adorned it. Giving up on his cigarette, he retreated back into his final stand. The shop was based in a run down shack in the rough part of town. Delinquents on tiny bikes, always with fat tyres, frequented the footpath close by, gathering to cause adolescent anarchy for everybody else.

The interior of G’s establishment had little resemblance to the third world persona it presented on the outside. A bespoke chandelier held its pose with elegance in the centre of the store, a plethora of hanging diamonds tinkled with breeze of custom while G’s few but loyal regulars made their purchases of bongs, pre-rolls and drug test-beating kits. Very few stores present this atmosphere of high-class luxury for drug abusers G would say to himself as the light streaming through the windows caught on legitimate 17th Century sculptures of pre-modern joints and, in the corner, bring to life the centre piece –  A 7 foot monolith to the consumption of all things mind-altering, Druidoga, the underground deity of intoxication.

G would reflect on the teachings of Druidoga often, wondering how the deity would view his establishment. He believed that in time Druidoga would show himself to G, the greatest patron of intoxication paraphernalia the world had ever known.

G’s last stronghold rotted now on the corner of a sunken borough of North London, but in its prime GG EZ was a world-renowned company, albeit amongst the 1%. G used to delight in the idea that his own hand-made diamond Ultra-Bong was the weapon of choice for dignitaries of all nationalities and ideologies.

Everybody loves to get fucked up. G had been aware of this untapped market since the day his father had taken him to Brussels for a meeting of EU member states and he had caught Jonas-Claudio Janker, then president of the European commission, sniffing a fat line off the back of Thomasz Tusk, the disgraced ex-Polish President.

Thinking of getting fucked up, G became unequivocally aware of the gun lying sombre in a draw within reach. The memories were too painful, G wanted to experience his life one more time and he knew the only possible way was to blow his brains out and live in the flashbacks.

‘Lets get fucked up’, a wry smile crossed his lips as he squeezed the trigger and dropped into a heap. The splash on Druidoga’s face created a glisten and a clarity to his presence that dried, creating the legend that he had come from his statue and slaughtered G himself. The G shack soon became Druidoga’s Damned Death Shack.

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