Tubbo watches the parrot fly off with another letter to his father. He squints against the sun, then lets out a sigh. “Right,” he says, dusting his hands off, and he looks around the grassy area for his partner in crime.
Techno is hard at work, armed with a hoe and a water bucket. He’s tilled a good portion of land, and Tubbo hums in approval as he carefully treads around the upturned soil. “This looks great, Techno,” he praises.
“What are you growin’ here, anyway?” He watches Tubbo unlock the van, wiping the sweat off his forehead with one arm and leaving behind a smudge of dirt.
“You have to swear to secrecy,” he whispers conspiratorially. When Techno nods, Tubbo beckons him inside.
The van isn’t much on the inside, just a cramped space with shelves on the walls and a couple chests. “Open that,” Tubbo tells him.
“…You wanna grow weed?”
“Hear me out,” Tubbo says quickly on seeing his disbelief, “If we grow weed, nobody else does to the best of my knowledge, right? We can get them addicted to smoking crack! And since we’re gonna be the only suppliers, they’ll have no choice but to buy it from us, and bam. Profit.”
Techno looks thoughtful. “You might be onto something. I don’t think Phil’s gonna be too happy about it though.”
“Screw Phil,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “What’s that old man gonna do anyway, tell us to get off his lawn?”
Techno laughs and pockets some seeds. “Yeah, alright. We gotta find someone to hook though.”
“That’ll be your job. I’ll manage the business side; I’ll crunch the numbers and shit, and you’re gonna be in charge of marketing. You’re gonna- you’re gonna be the sell here. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Techno agrees.