Stoner Girl and the Man

A Moody Man sat outside the great Greek Fornication Park waiting for the local Gangdelinger to arrive.
Damn it’s cold! He thought as a shadowy figure approached – it was the Gangdelinger and his package. The Man took the package without comment and tipped the Gangdelinger appropriately. He held the package tightly to his chest, his eyes shifting left, then right. He watched the Gangdelinger disappear in the shifting mists, before rising from the cold bench and returning on his way.
Back at the damp apartment he unwrapped the package. It was an odd object, but it was sure to do what he wanted it to do. He prepared for the ritual, dragging out his shrine to the long lost love of his life. When he performed the one-man love act, he found that the Gangdelinger had tricked him, leaving him loveless in his damp, cold apartment.
He swung his legs over the side of his bed to the floor and buried his face in his hands. Like this he sat for a long while, thinking, fuming. He looked up, running his fingers through his sweaty, unkempt hair, his eyes finally coming to rest on the 1955 Nude Marilyn Calendar. His eyes took in every curve, every shade, every nuance of the image, and soon found himself satisfied, if not sticky.
Standing, he padded across the cold floor to the washroom. Suddenly it came to him. He would give the Gangdelinger a taste of this unwanted black ball of lust, rage, and hate that he held inside.
A thought occurred. A thought of the drug addict down the hall, and how she was always up for a good caper. He got dressed, gathered up his worthless object and made his way town the hallway.
He curled his left hand into a tight fist and knocked on the door. A voice emanated from the flat bidding him to enter. He opened the door and was immediately greeted with the mind-numbing aroma of cannabis. Through the smoke of the weed, and at least a dozen sticks of patchouli-scented incense, he spotted the owner of the voice sitting on a stack of pillows in the corner of the tiny studio apartment.
She inhaled deeply from an overly ornate water bong, her golden curls hanging heavily in front of her eyes which were themselves hidden behind round, purple lenses.
“Hey Man, what’s with the package?” She slurred, seductively.
“Long dead friend. I was off to cremate her, interested?” The Man wanted to know.
“Wow Man, that’s so cool… so you’re going to a morgue and shit… wow…” She took another deep puff, “Yeah… I am interested.”
They left the flat and headed down Warthog Street towards the morgue.
A thought occurred to the Man, “Oh, and by the way if you see a Gangdelinger (he said the word like a curse) - he’s mine.”
The Man was pleased to have Stoner Girl’s company on his journey; she was to him a ray of sunshine amid this cesspool of human filth and suffering.
On Grasshopper Avenue, they caught a cab the rest of the way to the Big Rock County Morgue.
Stoner Girl paid the cabbie with some damp, crumpled bills, and joined the Man at the entrance. He stood for a moment, staring pensively. She turned to him, her golden curls twirling, and asked him what was wrong.
Hmm, he thought, that was a good question. What was wrong with him? Was the thought of cremation so horrible? Or was it the feeling of finality. The feeling of finally laying his love’s memory to rest. He imparted this to Stoner Girl. She smiled.
“Trippy.”
(And then “the Monkeys…”)
Into the morgue they went to give his love her final rest. But Stoner Girl wanted to see the “body” being cremated in the great furnace of no return for herself. He agreed, and they retired to the inner sanctum. It was when he finally opened the package that the shock of what was to happen came over Stoner Girl’s round face.
“A rubber doll?”
“Do you think any less of me?” The Man needed to know.
“Not possible,” she said, “Just wondering why you would waste all that rubber.”
They put the doll to rest and prepared a small grave. Stoner Girl bowed her head as the remains were lowered into their final resting place. She spoke:
“With this symbolic burning you lay to rest the final memory of Sally. The ex-love of your life.” She pulled out a cigarette pack and extracted a fat spliff. She lit up and puffed deeply. She tapped the ashes into the small open grave. “Ashes to ashes, rubber to rubber, this is where the rubber hits the road, but no ant can move a rubber tree plant.” She passed the joint to the Man who took a quick pull.
“Poignant.”