#is the hottest fucker in the world i will die on this hill

[heartofhubris-a]

Why does Otto throw his arms out like that when he's talkinga bout Norman?

[locochronic-blog]

1.

Cue the helicopters.

Federal agents soar high above California’s northern coast like eagles with a bird’s eye view of this multi-billion dollar black market marijuana industry. They see a symmetrically beautiful Yin Yang of rough blue sea and rolling green hills. Rhythmic waves crash like percussions on the shore ‘n rugged, mountainous terrains mimic the ups and downs of hill life for weed growers and trimmers, locals and transplants alike.

The task force chopper in the air slightly descends, losing sight of its moving target as a line of cars disappears under a Redwood forest canopy that is too dense.

Launch the drones.

Agents rely on monitoring live stream footage from their remote controlled drones as the little fed cameras swoop closer to the ground, able to finagle through trees with ease. Able to stalk this criminal brigade mobbin through the woods.

Humboldt, Mendocino and Trinity Counties are collectively known as the Emerald Triangle for ranking highest in Cannabis production throughout the United States for all of time… Don’t quote nothin tho. These counties have been putting in work since before getting high was this cool… and with all the recent advancements of this underground industry, getting high has never felt so sensational. 

This that LoCo Chronic, sucka.

Majestic rays of love and light filter through giant, ancient trees as the dusty mountain road begins to narrow on a summer’s eve. From the sun, rays of light travel a hundred million miles in under ten minutes and still must reposition around these mystical Redwood beings. 

Beings wider than the SUVs that maneuver amongst them through roads ’n coves. 

Fallen beings crafted into big castles.

It’s the green Wild West, baby.

Primitive ferns carpet the forest floor and rattle as the ground rumbles out of nowhere. Ballerinas of Godly mist percolate above vines and mossy rocks, dancing with mountain lions, bobcats, bald eagles and bears. One might imagine Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World” playing merrily in the background.

Shit ain’t sweet out here tho, so Tupac’s “High Til I Die” gets progressively louder with its deep bass and quick pace. People are really out here mobbin in the middle of nowhere.

“Smokin chronic muthafuckas, causing ruckus”, Tupac’s distinctly sexy voice stabs at the tranquility of surrounding nature. “It’s the last of the drank pull over, can’t hear a damn thing sober. High til I die, loced til they smoke me, the shit don’t stop til my casket drop… I’m high til I die…”

Oversized wheels race by, one set of beefy black rims after the other as five or six off-road capable trucks and SUVs cruise swiftly through the woods. The racket approaches Wyatt and Chaska's ranch rapidly, reverberating sounds of music throughout the hills, causing critters to scatter at once, with chills.

Rabbits and deer steer clear.

For growers and trapstars, summer in Humboldt is when all goes well, or, well, you’re fucked. And the drought ain’t over. Won’t be anytime soon. All this heat and wildfire smoke is a bitch, it’s making some hill workers go crazy.

“I know the feds watchin!” Chaska shouts above the music playing in the car, “Why else they circlin round here on a Sunday? Can't be no dang electric company!”

Chaska is co-owner of the grow-op and acts as both the armed guard and the DJ in the passenger seat. His buzz cut glistens with sweat on this hot August day and he wears a couple gold chains that contradict his country boy demeanor yet reinstate his unpredictable priorities. He also wears his machine gun like a seatbelt.

A gorgeous, soft spoken Alicia Keys look-a-like named Aura drives with one hand, adjusting the rearview mirror with the other to be sure of what she sees.

“We’ve got visitors!” Aura warns.

She feels alert and refreshed, refusing to put the A/C on anything other than high while she is behind the wheel. Curls poppin, dancing with the air that blows in their direction. Her beaded charm bracelets jingle over bumps and potholes as she transports a load of workers to the farm. Her favorite and most unique charm on her wrist was decorated by her son Carmelo after his last day of Kindergarten a couple months ago. He painted a beautiful rendition of her head and hair’s silhouette onto a plain wooden coin and she looks even more like a Goddess through the eyes of her child.

Aura is a mother, a college student and a bartender who hosts karaoke every Thursday night. With a demeanor so sweet, nobody would believe the lifestyle she truly lives… Not that she talks much about herself to strangers anyways.

Aura and Chaska teamed up to drive and guard the last car in the criminal convoy today. The goal of this backup squad is to deter cops and crooks, by any means necessary, from following the rest of the gangsta fleet of guards and workers up to Chaska and his brother Wyatt’s weed farm. 

Rose turns around from the middle row of the overly lifted SUV and peaks through the tinted back window. She finds herself at eye level with a couple steadily approaching drones and instantly snaps around to face front, paranoid about having her face on camera. She pulls her long, wavy hair into a sloppy bun and throws on a black hoodie to cover the distinct tattoos painted preciously on her arms.

The drones stream footage up to agents in the helicopter, revealing a line of pimped out trucks and SUVs all painted forest matte green so deep they look black at night. Each whip is equipped with massive all-terrain tires, heavily tinted windows, spotlights ’n grille guards.

Incidentally, all the doors and windows of this brigade are also bulletproof. Some markings decorate the exterior of a couple cars like souvenirs from upset shooters whose bullets never made it to the person riding shotgun.

Ironic.

Drivers, armed guards and over a dozen blindfolded passengers bump up the mountain on the hottest day in years. A sunny Humboldt summer that’s hot with the cops, too.

“Yeeee”, Chaska haws as he pops a magazine into his modified gun and loads the chamber, “I’m sher glad I done chose to git in your vehicle today, Miss Aura. Now open that sunroof for me, if you be so kind”.

Aura is Chaska’s sister-in-law, though she and his brother Wyatt split up a year ago. Wyatt waits at the ranch for the convoy of cars to pull up, caring for Carmelo along with other little kids and making lunch for the guards who stayed with them for the day.

Chaska and Wyatt look similar but act totally different. They are muscular and healthy, half Portuguese half Native American with a natural tan to their skin year round. They could pass as twins despite their different personalities and hairstyles. Wyatt is younger yet wiser and he flaunts his Native roots with long, silky black hair he keeps tied back while working. Chaska is a couple years older and keeps his hair short as if he’s about to deploy with the militia. 

Chaska acts so savage and redneck it’s comical, considering his familial upbringing surrounded by countless tribal elders guiding him in the right direction. Soon as him and Wyatt’s folks died Chaska quit attending ceremonies, quit showing respect to food he hunts and quit following advice from his tribe. As much as Wyatt becomes enlightened, Chaska becomes equally as dark and twisted. Instead of going to group gatherings, dances and prayers, a young Chaska would disappear for days at a time to camp in the woods. He can drive every single back road that stretches north, south, east and west in the Emerald Triangle blindfolded. He can survive for months alone in the wilderness. 

And he can kill anything that moves without feeling a drop of remorse.

Aura presses a button on the dash and the sunroof slides back like a door to an action packed movie. Chaska takes off his shirt, ties it around his face and throws on a baseball cap leaving only a slither of his eyes as evidence in a potential case. In one fluid, almost rehearsed movement he places a hand on the roof of the car and thrusts himself upwards til he is standing on the passenger seat with his gun toting in the breeze. He switches the safety off and steadies his aim amidst such dusty, rugged curves in the road. 

Agents in the air monitor the cameras that lag only a second or two behind real time. They see a masked figure pop up out of nowhere and call through their radios that there is what appears to be an M4 aimed directly at their pricey cop toys. Orders from base are given to hold the drones back a few yards and begin swerving them from left to right on this winding mountain cut through.

Turn those fuckers off.

Distance and swerves are no match for Chaska’s tactical moves as he holds down the trigger and sprays in one sweeping motion. With a shot to the brain of each robot, footage is immediately ceased, leaving nothing but fuzzy gray connections up on the helicopters split screen.