i pass the bong to alexander the great. he has been surprisingly quick to grasp the idea and is now taking fat rips that make my eyes water to watch. he pauses after clearing the chamber, the stem lightly pinched between two slender fingers covered in gold filigree and tiny glittering emeralds. he holds it for a count of 5 and then blows the cloud out his pursed lips and flared nostrils. "delightful. much like a dragon." he says calmly, his eyes red and watery like sea-glass held to the sunset. "you know," he drawls, "we're not much different, you and i"
he passes to napoleon next, who attempts to imitate alexander’s formidable bong rip. he holds the smoke in his lungs—such a devastating rip for the little commandant—as tears begin to stream down his face. the seconds agonizingly pass by in choked silence but the emperor of france does not relent until eventually, violently exhaling. he whispers through rapturous gaps, “amazing” as he mops the sweat from his little bangs. “this technology could change everything for france.”
atilla takes it from napoleon’s hands and drinks the bong water.
