Such an occasion prompted the engaging of illegal activities. A politician's daughter, who was often seen as the most innocent and lighthearted young woman her family had produced, was snorting cocaine and sipping lean like it was water. A young and upcoming priest who finally became ordained walked out from a bedroom upstairs, his fourth body for the night sprawled on the bed with her legs open and chest voraciously searching for the air to calm her lungs. N'Umoya remembered his name vaguely, something along the lines of Father Daniels. The Savannah native sat in a basement lounge with some long-time friends who had got the entire shindig together in the first place, kicking back in a brown bean bag chair with a glass blunt in hand. The mood in the basement was much more calm and easygoing than the main function upstairs, some people finding themselves going in-between settings to give themselves a breather of either or.
The air in the basement had a strong smell of pot, evident by the twelve people huddled in a circle sitting in bean bag chairs. You heard the occasional pull on a blunt and the ever present sound of giggling as someone told an extravagant story about what happened to them the previous week, or some embarrassing event that happened years back. A tan-skinned woman with green hair and an orange dress that barely held her chest from spilling out and her ass from being exposed passed out from getting too lit, her head laid down on N'Umoya's lap as he sat hunched, taking a long drag from the glass blunt he finished packing moments before. The vibes made the not-so-young man wonder where his life was really heading, considering this was the third party he had been to for the night with two more possibly before the sun rose. The humidity fogged his glasses a bit, but he had no issue seeing through them either way. He had his dreads kept in a ponytail of sorts, in case he got too lit and light his own dreads on fire. It had happened before and he wouldn't be too thrilled to have to regrow back that one lock.
"N'Umoya," spoke a man who had just came down to the basement from two floors up. The young man was dressed in clothes that N'Umoya probably wouldn't remember the next day, but the older man knew who called out to him. His name was Post, or rather, that's what he knew him as. He was N'Umoya's weed man, and someone who could be trusted to an extent. N'Umoya gave a grunt of acknowledgement as Post walked closer, grabbing the Savannah native's shoulders before dropping himself into the bean chair next to him.
"You need another dime bag before I head out for the night?"
"Nah man, I'm alright for the week. If I see someone else who's lookin' for a dealer Imma hit your line up."
"Good looks." Post and N'Umoya fist bumped before the former made his way upstairs and out the house, his destination yet another house party to see who would be willing to buy his product. N'Umoya scratched his head before realising that it was two in the morning. The others in the smoke circle were talking about high school days, something N'Umoya couldn't relate to. He vaguely kept his attention to the conversation until someone took out a clear bag from their pocket. The contents: magic mushrooms. Hesitant at first, N'Umoya realized that he had on the lavender purple band, and decided that if he was going to risk it all that night, it would be something new. Not another body, but one of the many shrooms being passed around the circle.