A segment from LARRY POTASH AND THE GRATEFUL DEATHLIES

[derby378]

The final Harry Potter movie gets released this week, so in the spirit of that Potter spoof I did back in 2007, I'm bringing back my version of the boy wizard for another installment in his psychotropic saga. With apologies to Joanne Kathleen Rowling and You-Know-Who - enjoy!

Chapter 4 – CHASING SEVEN DRAGONS

We were somewhere about two miles away from my old home on Number Four, Pissant Drive, on the edge of town when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something to Headcheese like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should..." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like huge hinkydinks, all of them with my own face, swooping and diving around the enchanted Electra Glide in black. And a disembodied voice cried out, "Holy Jesus! Who taught these Goddamn animals how to brew up Polyjuice Potion?"

Then it was quiet again, except for the mighty engine on Headcheese's Harley. "What the hell are ya going on about, Larry?" he shouted. "Yer not under the influence of Sherman Hemsley again, are ya?"

"Never mind," I muttered, "it's your turn to drive."

"Phencyclidine. Jee-zus. Save the hard shit for later, man. Right now, yer jest putting your dreams at risk of having bummer trips."

That's when I remembered the plan that was already underway. There were seven Larry Potashes in transit across the British countryside in order to throw off Voldecontin and his Toad Lickers, with yours truly in tow with Headcheese in the Harley barreling through the sky at 70 miles an hour towards the rendezvous. There was no going back, because the last remnants of my mother's protective charm had worn off on my asshole Mugwump uncle's house, and there was no time to rest. The next 45 miles would be tough ones, but we would have to ride them out. No point in telling Headcheese about the hinkydinks, though. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

My two best friends from Warthawgs, Ron-Jon and Fermion, were on two of the decoy brooms, as were Ron-Jon’s brothers Bread and Gorgeous. That left Frenchie on the flying Westie and the hitchhiker that Headcheese picked up on the way to my old house. Seven Larry Potashes flying through the air, pure Operation Overlord. Brilliant.

The Bag of Holding that was tucked in between my legs on the floor of the sidecar held enough kit to supply a half-dozen Odd Future concerts. We had two dozen chocolate-covered space brownies (in case of dementors), thirty Wizzley’s Wizard Whimseys, a bottle of Skele-Gro, seventy-five tablets of Ecstasy, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a keg full of Butterbeer, a vial of Liquid Luck, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, inners, and outers – as well as the aforementioned PCP. Not that we needed all of that to take on the Dark Lord Voldecontin, but once you get locked into a serious collection of psychonautical agents, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

Headcheese aimed the Harley a little closer to the hitchhiker's broom. He was shouting, "Hot damn! I’ve never ridden on a broom before!"

"Strange, since you’re a Wizard and not a Mugwump," I replied. "I guess you’re about ready, then." The kid nodded eagerly as we flew over some old church.

"I want you to have all the background," I said, "because this is a very ominous assignment – with overtones of extreme personal danger...Hell, I forgot all about this Butterbeer, you want some?"

"Sure, man," he said, taking the Butterbeer and swallowing a considerable gulp.

"How about some angel dust?" I said.

"What?"

"Never mind," Headcheese interrupted. "Let's get right to the heart of this thing. Twenty-four hours ago, Pew-Pew Thunderthisse of the Ministry of Magic went over to the dark side, making it a criminal offense to connect Potash's house to the Shroom Network. All in the name of protecting Potash, to prevent Voldecontin from getting his mitts on Potash, but absolutely pointless, since his mother's charm did that already, so Thunderthisse only succeeded in fucking us over a mighty oak, which was the point all along..."

The vagabond wizard's face was a mask of pure fear and bewilderment.

"I want you to know that this man is the Warthawgs groundskeeper!" I blurted out. "He's not some Mugwump I picked up from baggage retrieval at Heathrow! Shit, just look at him! He doesn't look like you or me because he's a giant." I leaned in closer to the hitchhiker and started into my own face. Cosmic. "But that doesn’t matter to you, does it? Are you prejudiced?"

"Hell, no," the hitchhiker responded.

"And that's a damn good thing," I said, "because in spite of his race, this man is extremely valuable to me."

That's when the Toad Lickers finally decided to show up. Tried to catch us off guard as soon as we left the edge of town. Right out of a fucking comic book. Their wands were drawn and fully lit. Without warning, they began to paint the evening sky with hurled bolts of electric green hell shooting from their wands in an attempt to take us all down.

One of the green jets smashed into the front wheel of the Harley; if that had been Headcheese, the poor bastard would be done for, but he slumped over the handlebars anyway. "What’s wrong?" I yelled. "We can't stop here! This is hinkydink country!"

"My heart," Headcheese groaned. "Where's the medicine?"

I opened the bottle of Skele-Gro and waved it under his nose. A single whiff of the fumes would do. There is nothing in the world so helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a Wizard in the depths of a Skele-Gro binge. I had to drink a whole bottle of that shit when Professor Anal Douche Nozzle succeeded in removing all my arm bones during my second year at Warthawgs. I couldn't see myself wanting to get high off of Skele-Gro, but I knew that if we survived this assault from Toad Lickers, we'd get into that rotten stuff soon.

Headcheese was back in the game – indeed, a little too much. He stole one of my dusted joints out of my pocket and sparked it up, and now he dodged the Electra Glide through a hail of green bullets while shouting the lyrics to some old Weird Sisters song at top volume, tears streaming from his eyes. It was like listening to Tom Waits perform a Kate Bush song on voice, upright bass, kazoo, and jackhammer. I was mildly freaked out.

"Hey, guys," the hitchhiker shouted, "I gotta go. I really like you guys. Don’t worry about me." Before I could talk him down, he veered left on his broom and right into path of an oncoming green blast from one of those damnable Toad Lickers. His face petrified as if he was freeze-framed at the beginning of a Bushiatus Curse, and he fell lifeless to the ground below. Poor dumb kid. I was beginning to like him.

"Forget him," Headcheese shouted through the din. "It's absolutely imperative that I get you to the rendezvous before midnight! Otherwise, we might have to pay for our suite!"

"You watch your mouth," I shot back. "You’re talking to The Boy Who Lived, you scurvy narc bastard! I'll grind you up into lunch meat for the House-Pixies!"

Headcheese was laughing out of control and started singing again. Or shouting. He took another joint out of his own pocket and lit it by allowing one of those deadly green jets to nick the tip. Fucking giants. They'll be the saviors of us all if they don't kill us off first.

That's when we saw the sign on the road below, yet another inkling of how much control Voldecontin now exercised over the Ministry of Magic:

DON’T GAMBLE WITH LARRY POTASH!
CONVERSATION – 20 YEARS IN ABACAB
HARBORING – LIFE!

So I was not entirely at ease flying through the English countryside in the sidecar of an enchanted motorcycle with a wizarding kit and narcotics lab wedged between my legs and an escort who was definitely dissociative at this point. We had several narrow escapes flying through the recreation of the Tet offensive until I heard Voldecontin's own voice calling out in the din. His voice hissed like the brakes of the Warthawgs Express pulling into Platform Square Root of Negative One Divided By Who The Fuck Cares.

"Your wand, Liddy - give me your wand!"

There was truth in the madness Voldecontin was speaking. He couldn't use his own wand on me because both of our wands featured leaves from a very special gold-colored Morroccan cannabis bush infused with chimera blood and Jim Morrison's ashes. This night flight was our own Plan B; now Voldecontin had to improvise one of his own. He pointed the borrowed wand at us and thundered a blood-curdling curse.

The wand exploded in Voldecontin's hand, setting his broom on fire and causing him to hurtle towards the ground. Fucker might as well have used a wand made with manatee shit and News of the World pages for all the Goddamn good it did him. The Toad Lickers broke off the chase to rescue their little dictator.

Headcheese and I really caught a break that time, until the hinkydinks came back, forcing me to keep them at bay with one of my old schoolbooks before Headcheese popped a magic green pill in my mouth and I lost consciousness. I woke up just in time to watch us reach the safety of the rendezvous, surrounded by an enchanted ring of smoke from a mixture of unicorn hair and primo Kentucky grass. Headcheese tried to drive the Harley into the safe house, but the door was too narrow, and the people inside seemed dangerously excited.

Will Larry Potash and his friends discover the secret of how to kill Voldecontin's buzz once and for all? Will this require an ample supply of Pixie-Sticks from Larry's loyal friend, Dooby? Will Ron-Jon and Fermion finally do it in the road? And what are those "Grateful Deathlies," anyway? What a long, strange trip it's been...!

[derby378]

1. KICK for the hell of it (n/t)

[derby378]

2. And a kick for the bleary-eyed morning crew

I already nodded off at my desk once. How embarrassing.