Myrcene: Benefit of the Drought

Before Myrcene was on the team he was out causing a scene in …

Benefit of the Drought

Press Play for the Golden Beets Mixtape

“Put the drugs down and your hands up!”

“Here we go again.” Myrcene turned around slowly, trying to eat the joint, while holding in a giant puff of smoke “Blaargh” his lungs exploded in a blast of smoke, ash and weed shake.   

“Get on the ground! You are under arrest!”

“For what, smoking a little joint? Don’t you have something better to do than harassing an innocent terpene just trying to chill? I’m a medical patient!”

Clink, clink. The handcuffs closed tightly around his wrist. The Amino Acid police dragged him to the molecular vehicle.

“Tell it to the judge. All I see is your green skin and tie dye shirt and all I smell is your sweet, earthy, musky body odor.” 

Rifling through his pockets, the FAAH Amino Acid cop pulled out multiple bags, random denominations of cash and even a little scale. 

“Definitely a dealer. Don’t you know that just having weed and a scale count for a kingpin charge?”

“Ouch. Police brutality, police brutality!” Myrcene yelled. 

Unfortunately for him it was 10am and his bedraggled appearance wasn’t doing any favors for his credibility. As the FAAH Amino Acid police threw him in the back of the car, a steady stream of proteins, lipids, and red blood cells flowed by, barely even noticing the drama play out. Organic compounds so desensitized to violence and inequality they had long since forgotten how to care. Conditioned to believe that sticking their neck out for a stranger would just get their head chopped off too. It was so much easier just to look the other way.

The police car doors muffled his cries as the officers got into the front. 

“Do you think all that was really necessary?” The good cop asked the bad one. “We could have just written a ticket and avoided clogging up the judicial digestive system.”

The bad cop answered without hesitation. “Fear is our strongest weapon on these streets.” 

He considered himself a good cop. Maybe that is the problem. Growing up in a rural area of the lower body, his main influences in life were fecal matter and sweaty nether regions. He knew he wanted to be a cop the first time he entered the bloodstream and witnessed a T-Cell take down a nasty infection. A license to kill.

The good cop joined the force to make a positive difference in the body. Her regular acts of community support were constantly overshadowed by the media’s microscope on blood type discrimination and festering systemic diseases. Alienated by the other Amino police officers for her moral genetic code, she still maintained her ideal of healthy bodily due processes and equal nutrient distribution. She knows her job is to catalyze the hydrolysis of endogenous amidated lipids, but that doesn’t mean she can’t perform her duties with ethics and integrity. 

“Fear is the tool of tyrants.” She said under her breath as they pulled up to the kidney police station.

Processed through booking and still blinking from the flashes of his mug shots, Myrcene got thrown into a large holding area for unwanted byproducts. The cell doors closed and he looked around uncertainly at the assortment of intimidating compounds and parasites. An evil looking virus eyed him down for any valuable genetic material. A couple of infections festered in the corner, obviously up to no good.

The cops usually just gave him a ticket or held him in a solitary cell until he was processed naturally out of the body. This time they dropped him right into the Intestinal County Jail, general population, amongst all of the other pollutants the system was trying to flush out. Needless to say, it was a real toilet. 

‘This isn’t good’ He thought to himself as he looked for a quiet corner. Myrcene is really powerful when combined with THC, CBD, and other terpenes in their entourage effect. But isolated he can appear as an herbal musky aroma with a fruity accent. The inmates don’t care if he is the most common terpene in cannabis. Without research Myrcene hasn’t been able to prove a thing about his benefits.

Two massive carbohydrates started walking over menacingly. The guards were occupied, working on fixing an ulcer from a recent acid reflux. A deep voice rumbled from the corner of the room. “Leave him alone boys, this one is mine.” The carbs metabolized out of the way in fear. An old marijuana seed rolled up and sat on the bench next to him.

Myrcene looked over with uncertainty. “Why are those complex carbs so afraid of you?”

The seed looked over at him with tired eyes, red as the first dawn. “I’m a real bad seed, born to be wild and built to survive. Plus, you never know when I’m going to sprout.”

“I’m Myrcene.” Puffing himself up into a little cloud of vapor, he tried to look tough. “I’m not just a pretty smell and taste, I’m a real indica when I’m prevalent in the strain.”

“I know who you are, kid. I once dated your great, great grandma in a landrace Special Kush Strain.” The seed momentarily lost himself in the past, reminiscing about all of the great cultivars he had loved. White Widow, Harlequin, even that little fling with a Blueberry Muffin strain in the 90’s.

Myrcene looked at the seed in a whole new light. “Are you my Grandaddy Purple?”

“Sorry son, I’m not that kind of player, I just get crushed a lot.” The seed broke out of his reverie. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in some high-end medical dispensary living the high life?”

“That’s the problem! I jumped from a field in Jamaica right into a science textbook and the lap of luxury. I still feel like I have something to prove about my benefits, without the arbitrary labels of medicinal or recreational. Everyone just needs to chill for a minute and this world would be a very different place. I can do that! I can help people!” Myrcene felt like he was having an epiphany, then he remembered he had the same thought last week and hadn’t done anything about it then either. “What are you doing in here? You don’t seem like the violent sort.”

“I’m the opposite of a violent offender, I’m just a peace-loving gift of nature.” The seed opened his shell just enough to let a little green shine through. “Seeds aren’t made bad; they are labeled bad. It was just a routine traffic stop but the driver’s eyes were red and he smelled like weed. They got everybody out of the car and frisked them. Finally, they found me between the cushions in the back seat. All it took was a couple seeds and stems and we all went to jail for marijuana possession and intent to grow and manufacture."

"The driver Beans Seagull got an extra 10 years for having a pea shooter. The Stem twins went to a federal facility and got turned into tinctures with some other larf. I was barely 16 years old. I served four years in that seed bank and got out a little early on good behavior, because you can‘t keep a good seed down."

"Who knows what could have happened if I grew up in fertile soil? None of that mattered anymore because that was my first strike and my journey of unjust incarceration had begun.”

“Yikes. How did you find any nutrition in that rocky soil? How do you speak with so much wisdom after a life of struggle?” Myrcene’s natural anti-inflammatory and relaxing effects enhanced his parasympathetic response. He thought he was a real bad ass by smoking a joint in public until he realized how removed his reality was from this seed’s experience of constant intimidation and systemic sabotage.

“The struggle is what made me who I am. A survivor, at any cost. But before I found the wisdom, I had to do the knowledge. I had to understand my value and believe in the fact that my creation is in itself a divine path. Realize that I am the original plant under the sun. But I had to face that truth imprisoned in the belly of the beast, reflected in a shard of glass, while sharing an intestinal ring with an indigestible Now and Later Candy. Once I had the knowledge and wisdom, I could achieve understanding. As I became aware of the trap in which I was germinated, I understood that this plight was not mine alone. I looked around me at all of the other plants being genetically modified to be more resistant to nature and produce a greater harvest. I witnessed fields of identical corn reaping itself, becoming corn syrup in children’s breakfast cereal. So, I found my purpose in number 4 Culture Freedom...”

A bell rang above them, derailing the seed’s Supreme Mathematics lesson.

“Dinner time. Line up!” A guard yelled roughly.

“Free dinner?” Myrcene thought, “Maybe this place isn’t so bad.” He got in line. As he went through the buffet he was offended by the quality of the food. Nutrients were hard to find, just piles of recycled proteins and empty carbs. He still overfilled his plate like a true pothead. Walking to a table he set down his mountain of mystery meatloaf and whack and cheese. Barely through his second bite, a little bag of white powder covered with prison tattoos sat beside him. Then a few other bags walked over to the table and stood around them nervously.

Trying to pass him something under the table, the powder locked eyes with him. “I am Cocaine. You are going to love me. I could be your best friend in here. I just need you to do me one favor.”

Myrcene loves making new friends. “How can I help?”

“Put this up your nose. Before the guards look over.” Cocaine pushed an even tinier baggy towards him.

“Whoa, buddy. We just met.” Myrcene tried getting up from the table. “That’s a third date request in my book.”

One of Cocaine’s nervous entourage pushed Myrcene back down. “Do it bro. We are all doing it. Once you try it you will want it all of the time.”

“Yikes, it sounds like you have a problem.” The bell rang again to enter their cells just in time for Myrcene to get away. He was glad that marijuana didn’t have the addictive properties of Cocaine. Although, he could get a little cranky when his THC levels get too low.

Cocaine scraped a bony claw across Myrcene’s hand as he escaped. “I may not have hooked you this time, but next time I’m coming with my cousin Crack.”

He filed towards his cell with all sorts of bad elements.

Clank, Clank. The cell door closed behind him. Sitting on the lower bunk was a nitrogen atom fiddling with his two oxygen atoms, murmuring and laughing to himself. The upper bunk looked pristine, as if it had never been used. Myrcene tried to introduce himself but immediately felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He tried to speak but he just started giggling. His molecular cellmate finally noticed him and got back in his bubble. As air returned to the room, it took a couple minutes for Myrcene to recover his wits.

“What up bro? I’m Nitrous Oxide. Where did you appear from?” Nitrous inquired in a high-pitched voice.

“I’m Myrcene and if you know about ganja then you know I’m kind of a big deal.” Myrcene tried to seem tough in front of his new cell mate, especially after he heard him giggle uncontrollably like a schoolboy. “When I walked in here, I instantly felt high. How do I learn that trick?”

“It's no simple parlor trick bud. You gotta be ready to pay the price for instant results. Usually, the faster that something affects you, the worse it is for your body. Take heroin for example.” Nitrous expounded

Myrcene overreacted with his short attention span. “Whoa, dude! I’m not trying to do heroin. What are you, some kind of gateway drug?” 

Nitrous explained, “I’m not saying do heroin. I’m just explaining that the longer it takes for your body to metabolize a drug usually means the less impactful it is on your system. In your cannabis world think about comparing an edible or tincture to a milky bong hit or even a concentrate Dab. How a chemical enters your system and how quickly you can feel the effects often relates to the body’s ability to process and flush it out.”

Myrcene looked lost, “I can’t tell whether you are saying I should take more bong hits or less. You are pretty serious for a laughing gas. Can we go back to giggling yet?”

Nitrous shook his head. He knew that Chemistry Concentration at Hampshire College wasn’t going to do him any good in the real world. Fortunately, he found his niche in the festival circuit. Unfortunately, the last festival was raided. Fuckin permits. Now he was stuck in this balloon of incarceration trying to teach marijuana how not to burn himself out. “Sure, but it’s probably gonna make you pass out.” Nitrous blew a little bubble and passed it over.

Myrcene huffed it all up in one breath. “Hah, hah, ha hah” Clunk. Nitrous had seen it before. No one ever made it to the top bunk.

Myrcene wasn’t even aware he fell asleep as he transitioned into a lucid dream state. His eyes felt so heavy, he used his fingers to pry them open. As he looked around, he realized he wasn’t where he thought he was. The iron bars and cell walls had been replaced by an endless void. He had never felt so alone. Suddenly an imposing character appeared as if he had been standing over his shoulder the whole time.

“Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here?” Myrcene asked with uncertainty.

“So many questions, my little lucky charm. Jah! First, it is I, Homey O’Stasis, keeper of balance in the universe.” Homey expounded in a patois with an Irish accent. He looked like the lovechild of a Rastafarian and a Leprechaun. “You are currently astral traveling in the 5th dimension. As to why you are here, that’s the reason you are here.”

“You speak in riddles OG. Kushnd’t you just speak straight? Last time I checked I was doing hard time for exercising my right to a solid buzz. Do they have couches in the 5th dimension?” Myrcene looked around for somewhere comfortable to sit down, he was feeling a little dizzy and lethargic. Homey manifested chairs and a little table for them to sit at. “Any chance I could get a little coffee and some breakfast cereal?”

“Always after me lucky charms! Lord ‘ave mercy!” Homey got down to business. “I’m talking about your life purpose. All you want to do is smoke weed, party, and bullshit. Can’t you see your potential?”

“Slow down, Mr. O’Stasis. You sound like my parents Bubba Kush and Harle-Tsu, always talking about higher education and responsibility. I’m doing just fine. It's not my fault the economy collapsed and my job is obsolete. Unemployment is paying the bills and I halfheartedly look through the classifieds every so often.” Myrcene huffed himself up defensively.

“I’m not calling you out. I’m calling you in. I’ve smelled you on the grapevine with your musky, herbal, fruity aromas. I’ve seen research about your anti-inflammatory, antibiotic and antimicrobial powers. I’ve tasted your tropical and earthy tones. I’ve felt your calming sedating effects. I’ve smoked the special Kush right off your bush and I’ve gone catatonic off your blueberry cannatonic.” Homey don’t play that shit.

“Stalker alert. How do you know so much about me when I’ve never heard of you?” Myrcene laughed dismissively.

“Because you have never tried to find balance, my little green clover. But it’s not entirely your fault. These are difficult times indeed. Jah Rastafari!” Homey O’Stasis exclaimed in exasperation, but then a little golden glimmer appeared in his eye. “I’m putting together a team of organic compounds like yourself. I know how powerful you were when synergizing with THC and CBD and all of the other phyto cannabinoids and terpenes in the 80’s.” 

“So, you’re trying to get the band back together?” The realization energized Myrcene. “I was all about that entourage effect but I never felt like I was properly acknowledged. It was always about THC and how high he gets you. People didn’t even care about us terpenes back then, they just smoked whatever their dealer sold.”

“Times are different now. People are finally waking up to your unique benefits through access to medical and recreational dispensaries.” Homey kept going. “This team I’m talking about could be an opportunity to embrace your full spectrum, compounding with other compounds. It is a chance to join a family, to be cultivated together, to face the same terpene profile tests.”

“I don’t know bro. It seems like a big commitment. If you know so much about me then you know I can also reduce motivation and cause lethargy. It sounds like a lot of work infiltrating the endocannabinoid system just so you can keep everything in balance.” Myrcene wondered if Homey O’Stasis’ vision of an ideal state really matched his.

“We can’t do this without you. You are the most common terpene in cannabis. Would you rather just decay in some cancerous cell that you could have prevented? If you aren’t accountable, how will you ever be accounted for?” Homey’s final words echoed in Myrcene’s subconscious as he flew back through the void, slamming into his body.

Myrcene woke up yelling. “Accountability, accountability. Noooo!” He rolled around on the cell floor roaring about night terrors of responsibility. The guards ran into the cell and threw him in a straight jacket and dragged him off to the psych ward.

Watching from his bunk Nitrous thought to himself “I thought he was supposed to be good for insomnia. That guy seems like he has some suppressed emotional baggage if you ask me.” 

Myrcene awoke feeling like he was in an alternate reality. He realized his arms and legs were in restraints. Everything around him was swirling. “Help! Picture me rollin!”

A doctor flashed a light in his eyes. “He will be fine. He is just tripping on hallucinogens.” What else would you expect in the psychedelic ward? He undid Myrcene’s restraints, helped him up and gave him a glass of water.

Myrcene looked down at the cup in his hand and his hand began to pulse different colors while shrinking and growing. He tried drinking the water but somehow, he had forgotten how to swallow. Even stranger, that didn’t bother him at all. A group of amorphous shapes slowly approached.

“Welcome to the psychedelic ward, the walls are padded, the schnozberries taste like schnozberries, and every so often someone loses their shit.” As they took form with their little white caps and warped stems, the Shrooms provided a warm welcome to Myrcene’s psychedelic journey. Shrooms have been a source of mental and spiritual expansion throughout history. Although they are rumored to be a good trip, it is always good to exercise caution when eating magic fungi.

To Myrcene the room took shape like a Van Gogh painting. The walls and ceilings danced in strokes of color homogenized into a single hue. In the corner a gentleman appeared to be mixing peyote in a bowl, rocking back and forth chanting. In the other corner a strange chemical sat facing a blank wall appearing to be in deep conversation with a group of otherworldly beings.

“Don’t worry about him, that’s just DMT talking to the ‘eternals’ as he refers to them.” LSD put his arm around Myrcene and guided him to a chair.  “DMT is a chemical produced in the body during birth and death. It is well known for its almost instantaneous hallucinogenic effects and powerful distortion of time and space.”

“I don’t remember taking any hallucinogens. How did I end up here?” Myrcene did his best to get a handle on his reality with deep shivering breaths. Through transcendent climaxes of energy, he rode with the flow. This wasn’t his first rodeo.

“Oh, that was my bad.” LSD replied. “Sometimes I pee in the water supply just to shake things up a bit. You wouldn’t believe the variety of interesting characters I have mixed it up with over the years. I even headlined at Woodstock.”

“Wow, I feel like I am connecting with untapped parts of my mind. I also kind of feel as if my brain is frying like an egg.” Explosive insights flew through Myrcene’s mind. He tried to catch them in his hand and arrange them like a puzzle. None of the pieces fit together as each one was its own microcosm. “This feels like it was cooked up in the lab.”

LSD got a little defensive. “Just because you are a common natural organic compound doesn’t mean that you are better than me. I can be a powerful ally in the expansion of consciousness!”

“Am I ever going to come down?” Myrcene felt another wave of euphoria rise through him.

LSD laughed nervously, “Probably. Just smoke this joint and work on this coloring book. I’ll check back on you in a couple hours. Have a good trip!”

Myrcene floated through the psych ward in a psychedelic haze. He eventually ended up sitting against the wall, gently rubbing the carpet. When he finally came down it was morning and he was back in the prison of his physical form. He told the guards that he felt better and they returned him to the general population just in time for breakfast.

As Myrcene sat at a table with a stack of glutens and uncertain breakfast meats, a group of alcohol molecules clustered around him. They all seemed drunk. One of them offered to pour a shot of vodka in Myrcene’s orange juice.

“Isn’t it a little early guys?” Myrcene’s brain still felt staticky from his Acid trip. Usually, he couldn’t control his munchies but right now even eating seemed like a strange activity.

“We are the booze hounds, just enjoying the hair of the dog that bit you. Don’t you know that you don’t get a hangover if you don’t stop drinking.” Tequila laughed as he raised a shot. The group all joined his cheers.

“You guys seem like a good time. What brings you to a place like this?” Myrcene inquired.

“We are a great time.” Tequila responded as he burped up a little worm. “I’m in for a couple of DUI’s. Vodka is in here for alcohol poisoning. Beer is in here for disorderly conduct and that asshole Mad Dog 20/20 over there is in for fighting. It isn’t like we can’t be enjoyed safely; we just get carried away with ourselves sometimes.” He put another shot in the air and howled “Boozehounds!”
The crew all lifted their glasses and then emptied their cups. Vodka collapsed on the floor as his liver exploded.

Myrcene cringed as he compared the negative impacts of cannabis and alcohol use. “Whoa, y’all are wild, and yet somehow more socially acceptable. When I get really stoned, I don’t want to operate motor vehicles. I haven’t heard of anyone getting marijuana poisoning. I have seen some people do some crazy shit on weed but I don’t think I would call it disorderly. Have you ever seen two potheads fight over anything other than the last piece of pie?” He concluded confusedly. “It sounds like you can cause some serious social and physical inflammation. Are you sure you’re helping the world?”

The Boozehounds all chuckled. Beer kept laughing after everyone else stopped, little suds bubbling out of his mouth. Tequila responded over confidently. “Of course we are helping. A glass of wine is a great way to shed the stress of the day. Few things are more refreshing than a cold beer on a hot day. A rye whiskey with a little ice and bitters can get you just right every night. And everybody loves to get their drank on in the club. Shots, shots, shots!”

Myrcene’s concerns were drowned out as the group kept getting more wasted. It wasn’t his place to judge the chemical behavior of other molecules, but he did wonder when enough was enough. The Boozehounds wandered off in a jumble like they were stumbling down Bourbon St during Mardi Gras.

Myrcene looked back at his dismal breakfast plate, trying to summon his powerful ability to increase appetite. Then he saw a delectable breakfast spread being carried off down the hall by a guard. “Who is getting the celebrity treatment in here?” He asked a random particle.

“That’s going to the Godfather of Smack. The Don Don of Heron. The Overdose King. He stays in solitary for chasing the dragon but the pharma industry keeps him living large and in charge.” Lowering his voice, the molecule cautioned, “You don’t wanna fuck with that guy. I would try to avoid the whole opiate family in general if you can.”
After breakfast all of the inmates were sent out into the yard. Myrcene felt like fresh meat as the other compounds eyed him down. Suddenly he saw a familiar mop top. “Dabs! I didn’t know you were stuck up in here. I thought you were still living the high life in that glass rig with all of those bangers. How did you get caught up in the belly of the beast?”

Dabs spoke quickly with a little stutter, “Oh man. Oh man. You know the saying ‘don’t throw stones if you live in a glass house’? It also applies to getting stoned in a glass bong. Either way I don’t know what happened. One minute I was using a blowtorch on the rig and then next I was walking butt naked down the highway, feet covered in sticky tar and shards of glass. The cops picked me up and charged me with public indecency.” 

“Rough. I always wonder if it’s a good idea to get so high as quickly as you do.” Myrcene preferred the heat low and slow. Just above his combustion point.

Shatter walked over. “Concentrate!” Dabs yelled as he lost his balance and fell against the wall.

Myrcene was startled by Dabs outburst. “Shatter, have you seen Live sauce, I always love how he retains the whole spectrum terpene profile.”

Shatter mumbled something incoherently then took out a portable rig and blasted himself into outer space.

Wax walked over, covered in dirt. “Oh, hey Myrcene, didn’t know you were in the big house large intestine. We are about to escape through the lungs in a fit of coughing. You wanna get in on this?” Wax pulled out a random unlabeled vape cartridge.

“Who are you, El Chapo? I don’t think I would get very far with my unique chemical profile and long record. I’ll probably have to wait it out in a fat cell until I get metabolized and pissed out of the system. But you guys do your thing. I’ll catch you on the other side.” Myrcene encouraged their mission even though it didn’t align with his.

“Concentrate!” Dabs yelled again.

Myrcene looked over his shoulder just in time to see the fist. Then everything went black.

“Homey? Homey?” Myrcene found himself in the void once again.

The darkness seemed to blink as Telemos the dastardly revealed his menacing silhouette. “Homey isn’t here. Welcome to oblivion.”

Myrcene stayed calm and sedate. “Who do you think you are, Darth Vader? I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.”

Telemos smiled dastardly. “You don’t need to fear me. You have already accepted me in your heart. Every time you look away or don’t try. Every moment you don’t live to your fullest potential my forces of darkness creep in deeper. I am entropy at its fullest.”

Myrcene shivered as he felt the cold truth. “It’s not my fault. I don’t see anyone else leading the charge. I’m out here living my best life.”

Telemos answered snidely. “Your best life for yourself or for other people? All you do is smoke the chronic and not give a fuck.”

“Who are you to judge me?” Myrcene got frustrated. “Where’s Homey? At least he was chill about it. I know balance is out there somewhere.”

“Your Rasta leprechaun has abandoned you, just as you abandoned him. He is out chasing rainbows, searching for pots of gold.” Telemos let Myrcene down cruelly, “Now you’re all mine”

Telemos laughed maniacally as Myrcene felt himself pulled back into his physical body. This astral traveling was no joke. He woke up on a bench with a start, “Nooooo! I will never be a servant to entropy!” Looking around he realized he was on the other side of the bars. Someone must have bailed him out.

Homey O’Stasis stood there in his full magnificence. “Are you ready to do better?”

“Talk about being scared straight. Count me in.” Myrcene’s head pounded and he was a little woozy on his feet. “But first I need to cop a little bag of weed and some munchies. You got anything on you? Even just a little joint clip and a granola bar? A vape cart and some cold cuts? A spliff and a schnitzel?”

Homey walked out of the jail shaking his head. “When we are done with your training you won’t ever need to look for the herb ever again. You will be one with the dank. But right now, we need to get you back on the streets, people are jonesin’.”

Myrcene followed him with hopeful eyes. “You can count on meat!”

Homey laughed. “Did you just say meat? Lord 'ave mercy!"


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