John Presco

Copyright 2020

A possible series for Netflix

As long as anyone can remember, Smoky lived at 908 5th. St. in Santa Monica California. No one knows where she came from, or, who her family were. A director for Hal Roach Studios owned this Spanish style house that became a crash pad in 1966 for surfers and hippies. Before that, several Mexican families had set up residence. There was a family from Nicaragua who had taken over the basement that was part of a underground railroad for illegal aliens. Not that anyone cared back then, but, these peoples who were half Native Americans and were prepared for the worse – for two hundred years.

In 1967 the notorious motorcycle gang ‘The Flying Maggots’ bought Stoner House and moved everyone out. Or so they thought. Holding their first pow-wow in the living room, a door opened, and from under the stairs emerged Smoky. She yawned, did her stretch, then wedged herself in the circle.

“Was haps?” she said to Aces who was rolling a joint from the old wooden cigar box.

‘Here, give me that. Choo aren’t doing a very good job.”

The leader of the pack started to say something, but was memorized as Smoky worked the seeds to a corner with the King of Diamonds. With one hand she licked and put two papers together. In one scoop she laid out a line of musty green cannabis she knew was shit-weed by the smell of it. But, not wanting to embarrass her house guests, she tugged on her perfect roll with three fingers, then whipped out a big wooden match from out her coin pocket.

“Who the fuck are you? How did you get here?” said Sneezer because he always sneezed after he took a hit, and thus he never got as high as his bros.

“I was just about….to ask….you fuckers…..what your doing….in my house!”

Twelve Flying Maggots had their mouths open as Smoky spoke.  She let a puff of smoke escape, then she sucked it back in, spoke some more words, and out came a cloud that she seemed to feed off of. It hovered about her head, like a trained parrot. Letting go two smoke rings from her nose, she gave Sneezer….the look! Some folks said she was a female shaman. One Maggot got the chills as her eyes bore into Sneezers soul – and beyond! They never saw anyone who was not there. She was home with…..The High!

There was stone cold silence in the room. Then Smoky let go a little angry cough. It had a brownish green tinge to it.

“Fuck! What is this shit? Are you dudes trying to poison me!”

Standing up, Smoky poured the contents of the box on the rug! Then mushed it in with her Spanish boot.

“There, I filled in this worn spot. Just like new!”

Zardo, the President of the Maggots, rose from his antique chair with the high ornate back, and…..

“Sit down Mr. President. No need to get all Nordic with me. I got something for you!”

The twelve checked out Smoky’s cute ass as her boots tapped out a Flamingo on the wood floors.  Emerging from ‘Her Staircase Room’  she threw an ounce into the wood box Aces was holding like some kind of fool.

“The rent!”

The Maggots had planed a run up to Malibu and back, but, they couldn’t even see the driveway where their hogs were parked. Smoky was tripping them out, suggesting they go get some live Flamingos and have then graze on the lawn.

“I aint going to cut the grass. Why spend money on a lawnmower?”

“Do Flamingos eat grass?”

“Our’s do!” Smoky said. She always had the answer for just about everything.

A year later, Zardo got a job offer. The promoters of the Northern California Folk Festival, and Jim Morrison, suggest ‘The Flying Maggots act as bodyguards. There had been a Pow-Wow, a ‘Gathering of the Tribes’ in Golden Gate Park, and Jim’s good friend, Michael McClure acted as the MC.

On the way to the concert The Maggots passed Jim in a limousine. Smoky on the back of Zardo’s hog, turned and snapped a pic that she got blown up and put on the wall.

It was Wishes who found the courage to ask about Smoky’s cloud. He was called Wishes because within four minutes of getting stoned, he began to wish for this, and wish for that.

“What is that? That’s not right….not natural!”

“If you must know, my wishful friend, this is a Ghost Parrot that once belonged to Billy The Kid!”

“Dang, girl! I wish I was trippy as you!”

That’s when it was ruled Smoky was worthy to wear the colors of the Flying Maggots, thus the puzzled look on Jim’s face. He knew women could not be members of a biker gang. But, there she was, turning in the seat….and giving Morrison…..the look.

This is when Jim had his infamous vision. He was in a Guatamalan jungle watching a native grind up this red-ochre root into a fine powder. Then – a ancient face put a tube in his nose – and blew! This is where the real vision of a Navajo shaman came from. Why Jim kept this a secret, is…….This is where his famous…..


came from.

To be continued

Rapé – the Sacred Amazonian Snuff You Blow Up Your Nose


About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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