Chapter 8
Foreman had tried to keep active, not thinking about all the things going on. He was also trying to stop thinking about the dope. He was barely holding it together, that much he knew. By nature, he was a strong minded individual, positive in outlook, optimistic and reasonably resourceful. But like many, there was only so much he could take. In a short space of time, he had flown millions of miles in a cramped spaceship, crashed and survived, lost three good colleagues and friends, and discovered that in his absence, his home planet was once again in self destruct mode. He couldn't even begin to speculate about the fate of his friends and family on Earth. That was a bit much for anyone.
He attacked the overgrown marijuana crop with a machete, clearing the plants to grow unencumbered to reach their maximum potential. Monkley got stuck in, carrying the loose stuff away to the compost heap. After a couple of hours, Foreman was satisfied the dope would be just dandy.
'I could kill for a beer, Pal. But I've been thinking. All this fruit. I should be able to make some kinda booze from it. My old dad used to brew all sorts of rot-gut in his den at the back of the house. Wine, vodka, beer. If he wasn't making it, he was drinking it. He sold enough off to pay for everything he drank. Mom always looked down her nose at him, but she could put it away when she was in a mood to. Time for a smoke, pal.'
Before he went to retrieve his dried stash of dope, he decided such a momentous occasion was deserving of being special. He found two tarpaulin from the tool shed. Cutting lengths of rope, he made hammocks between tree trunks, close to the waterfall. He had learned to work the computerised music gizmo, so the whole base became filled with sound. Just background noise.
Satisfied the dope had dried sufficiently, he found a clean storage jar. Poking a hole in the lid, he jammed a short piece of hose into it. Crumbling a handful of dried dope into the jar, he fashioned a spill which he lit and let the flame lick the dope. When it was smouldering, he replaced the lid and took it to the hammocks. Climbing onto it, he lay back. Following his lead, Monkley did the same.
'Okay. Here goes.' he put the end of the hose in his mouth and drew in the smoke, deep into his lungs. 'Damn!' he said with a spluttering coughing fit. 'That is awesome.'
Monkley sniffed the air. He began clapping his hands and slapping his chest.
'Oh, pal. I really don't think...'
Monkley had other ideas. He stood up on the hammock, swaying precariously, clapping his hands and chest slapping.
'Oh, what the hell. I reckon you deserve a blast.'
Monkley put the hose in his mouth and breathed in. Slowly, as Foreman had done, he let the smoke out. 'Happy.' He took another hit.
'Okay. Pass it over.'
Monkley handed the jar back. Foreman smoked for a couple of minutes, and then let Monkley have another blast.
'Haaaaapy.'
Foreman chuckled. 'Okay, pal. Just lay back and chill out.'
Monkley stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, legs crossed. He had a strangely dreamy look about his face. Foreman smoked for a few more minutes, letting the mellow feelings envelop him. As his mind relaxed, he put the jar safely to one side. A lot of the tension was finally leaving him. The pair were soon snoring in a deep and peaceful sleep.