Last Roundup

We were so fucking stupid, thinking we were clever.



The
legalization movement had reached critical mass. Society could no longer
resist the onslaught of popular opinion. Conventional wisdom was
prevailing: give the people what they want. So eager were we to have
peace, we rushed headlong into compromise.



Marijuana would be
legal across the entire U.S. Growers and users would simply have to
register with the federal government and accept a small, unobtrusive
tracking chip subdermally. To protect the children, that ancient device.



The
bill was signed into law, and we all jockeyed for position, eager to
sign on for our implants. Low serial numbers became status. Badges of
honor. Finally, we could cultivate and commune in peace.



For two
years, liberty and prosperity ruled the land. Then they came for us. We
were complacent and defenseless. Collectively, we had traded fear and
paranoia for the eternal bliss of pot smoking.



Conveniently
located by the chips that had enabled the most free period in American
history, we were herded into camps and forced at gunpoint to eradicate
our own plants with machetes and broadleaf weed killers. But even in the
camps, we were allowed to smoke. Naturally, we stockpiled more that we
pilfered during our day jobs.



We were determined to make the most of it and ride it out, convinced that the country would return to its senses in due time.



Eventually,
we were released without fanfare. We still had weed in our pockets as
we streamed back out of our prison gates. Like lemmings to the
slaughter.



Great celebrations were held. The first American
smoke-out began in earnest and lasted two days. Afterwards, we slept it
off, our stashes now burnt offerings.



There was no more pot to be
found after that. Clever bastards that we were, we only smoked
sensimilla. Seedless dope. We had no way to grow more, legally or
illegally.



But somewhere, deep in the forest, a sprout pushed its head out of the earth, hungry for sunlight...