Drugs

My balls are swelled up. I am in the bathroom about ready to puncture my scrotum with a huge needle, figuring the swellage must be something fluid related, when the doorbell rings. It startles me and the needle flies out of my hands and into the bathtub. “Shit,” I think, “this is going to be really embarrassing.” I rush to find the baggiest pair of pants I can and cross the house to answer the door.

Upon opening the door I am a bit startled to see four men in dour gray suits standing on my porch.

“Mr. L?” the man in the forefront asks.

“No, I’m Mr. C.”

“Is this 2300 Rosewood?”

“Yes it is.”

“I think we need to have a look in your basement.”

“May I ask what for?”

“Hiding something, Mr. L?”

“No, no, not at all, it’s just, well...”

“Drugs, Mr. L. We’ve had complaints of drugs.”

“I assure you that’s ridiculous. You’re more than welcome to have a look.”

I walk them over to the door of my basement, my legs slightly bowed on account of my huge scrotum. A casual glance over my shoulder reveals that they are traveling in a single file line. I open the door and click on the light, standing aside to let them enter. They all go down into the basement. After a few moments, I hear one of them call, “You better come down here, Mr. L!”

I walk down the steps. At first, the basement seems impossibly bright. As soon as I reach the bottom of the steps, I realize why.

The entire floor is covered in marijuana plants that reach chest-high. The ceiling is lined with sun lamps.

“Impressive,” I say, and then, “I know absolutely nothing about this.”

“We’re going to have to confiscate your house, Mr. L.”

There is no argument. Even though I know nothing about it I am clearly cultivating a drug field in my basement.

“Yes, of course. Will you be taking everything else in the house, also?”

“Well, we’ll be taking all of this marijuana.”

“I see.”

We all go upstairs. The man in charge makes a few calls with my phone. The others periodically shoot accusing looks at me as I struggle to move the couch out of the house. This task is made all the more difficult because of my swelling. I get the couch out to the curb and sit down on it, homeless, both my back and my balls hurting immeasurably.

I can't resist checking on my condition so I stand up and glance down into my pants. Amazingly, my underwear is stuffed with the marijuana leaves. The men are coming out of the house, the man in charge tossing the keys up in the air and catching them. They stand at the curb and make casual chit-chat until a bus comes and they all board.

They come back later that night with their wives, girlfriends and children. The next day a moving van brings all their stuff over. They leave the house every morning smelling like pot. People of all ages visit the house at all hours.

Two days later, the garbage man comes and tells me he has to take the couch. “It’s on the curb,” he says. I reach down into my pants and hand him the marijuana, moist from being in my crotch for days.

“Please, one more week,” I plead.