Liber Kiffmet — An Occult Dream Of Sorts Gone Bad with Weed & Dope

Sensitive content warning: Substance abuse as daily routine, physical violence, gore, or abuse & suicidal lifestyles written from each biased perspective.

Liber Kiffmet — An Occult Dream Of Sorts Gone Bad with Weed & Dope

© Andre Michael Pietroschek (if you must, pronounce Pee-tro-shack), all rights reserved

***

Disclaimer: No warranties! This story idea is fictitious, not real, and was inspired by some episodes of the Frozen Frights podcast. Meanwhile, I had learned that Amsterdam and Rotterdam are more expensive, and I learned that the city of Nimwegen outmatches Venlo in these modern days, but I kept my original narration authentic. Why? Because going nostalgia-lane on the young adult memories is part of this story's surrealism.

***

The story begins:

Among the urban legends of the modern age, there are the dopehead legends. Weed friends, grass-lovers, and neo-hippies may know what I speak of. But, as rarely as it happens, sometimes the ceremonial Magick hyped by people like Aleister Crowley, and the old legends about witchcraft, prove themselves to be cautionary tales, or cryptic hints, for the chosen few, who don't fail to get it properly. Now, for starters, Liber is Latin for book or grimoire. And Kiffmet is a slang term combining Kismet, a kind of accepting the inevitable, with a grudging kind of humor. Just that on Kiffmet, contrary to Kismet, humor was usually after smoking some weed.

And so, one night, many years ago, it happened that: Oops, for good or bad, I only remembered calling him Kiffmet. Maybe his name was Kemal or Murat, or Abdul. Well, our local, personal Kiffmet, was dragged into the urban legend, which he otherwise would have scoffed at, like many of us, who bolster their fear and ignorance by clinging to anything labeled science, or the religious sermon BS for the sedated masses.

To specify, and clarify, though: I do not talk about the cheapest hard-pressed junk you buy when the money runs low, or when you are still afraid to prostitute yourself, or risk mugging some fellow citizens. No, I talk about, and mean, the precious, more expensive stuff, which starts above fifteen euros, and which is usually only offered by old hippies, gardeners raising their extra income, or the more worthy coffee shops we knew from the Netherlands in Europe.

Being born German meant: I was often dependent on a reliable driver, or I was condemned to be that driver. High-speed driving, crossing the border, and surviving the ordeal back, with a bunch of totally shot into toxic space friends. Back then, I was a young adult, not a failed existence and university dropout, who I had become later. Oh, our pride in this democracy, and how our tolerance made us so much better than our Nazi ancestors. But racism sucks, and I exclude this from this tale, as I sell one about a Neo-Nazi female elsewhere!

So, one day, after household cleaning and window scrubbing, not groupie banging and money juggling, I lay on my simple bed, meditating, as I had gone abstinent from all the stuff we did as younger adults. And that was when it happened: A jolt of whatever shot through my spine, or at least it felt like such, and I was knocked out of my meditation. Wracked and alarmed, I sank back into my bed, eager to use my former occult training to visualize the meaning of this weird phenomenon. I know spine snapping, be it from sports, being wrestled, or work, but that jolt was more like a neural bashing. My nerves tingled, and somehow I knew, sensed, that it was meant to deliver a message to my mind.

And, hence, I proverbially froze, balanced my breathing, and went into the trance meditation, which is only reached once you have practiced for sufficient months of progressive muscle relaxation. To me, such was not new; I was on a Shaolin Kung Fu trip in my youth, and I had jobs with the night shift, hence I went through more than ten years of frequent meditation.

My eyes closed, I awaited the dream-like pictures to arise before my so-called mind's eye. I always scoffed at the fuss made about that rather simple way of daydreaming. Others consider it a powerful spiritual lesson. And it happened. From the blackness of closed eyes, there arose a radiant, timeless picture, not just for looking at but making my entire nervous system tingle, feeling as if there was nothing more important than complying with this call from within. I was too old to believe in such, but I remembered my younger, actually dumber me, risking a lot to indulge in such folly.

And let me share with you, the Kiffmet I saw therein, the long-forgotten friend, or pal, from twenty years ago: He looked like an angel, as in Malaki against Shaitani, an angel in a golden light, which seemed to be the source of life to my nervous system, my mind, and my body alike! Kiffmet, and in his hands the Liber Kiffmet. A quest fulfilled, a long-term task finally brought to a good ending.

For a moment, my adult self thought maybe he had died. But I arose, went through some yoga and shadow boxing, ignored my fear and doubts, started the much too expensive contractual mobile computer I had, and researched what had become of my three former friends, the four of us, dopeheads in our youth, and how life had separated us all.

For good or bad, I only remembered calling him Kiffmet. Kemal, Murat, Abdul, Mohammad... He, back then, was the only oriental among us, and I remember his sister was among the sexiest women I had ever seen in real life. But his real name? I can't remember.

With no idea where to look, I checked on the other two friends, who were Funky, who had become a banker, and Stoner. Stoner was no option, as I knew he was still, well, one night I had discovered my interest in banging his sister and his girlfriend, and I may have been a bit rude. Plus, He had always been the pack animal type. My mistake, though I merely tried to get laid, I did not try to rape, ever.

The phone call had disturbed Funky in his sleep, and my nervous, much too fast blapping, sure had not helped either. But his anger was temporal, and, to my surprise, he had some liking for my foolhardy idea to go, find Kiffmet, and agreed to meet with me. Having always been the poorest in our bunch, I had to walk the night, straight to the meeting point. Funky though, was a hard-working, established success-story dude by now, so he jumped into his pretty expensive car. I considered it a whim of a midlife crisis.

Kiffmet. The moment we met, we fell back into the old mood, which had once made us feel and behave like brothers in arms. We talked straight through the Witching Hour, which is a two-hour phase, ranging from a late night at 11 o'clock to early morning at 1 am. Contrary to the German Geisterstunde, aka Ghost Hour, from midnight to one o'clock in the morning.

For both of us, it was the first weed in years. He was restricted due to his new income and improved way of life, while I had simply remained too poor to waste money on any serious drug addictions. Well, I had been a smoker, but nicotine isn't the same as the dreamy-eyed good times, high on dope, grass, or weed.

The look in his eyes told me he would not join me. But, to his credit, he hadn't forgotten his own, younger self. He handed me a pretty large sum of money and offered to lend me his older car, which he still stored in a garage (of a house). I gladly accepted, though I had hoped for a full reunion. It was not supposed to happen, I guess.

To cut a long story short, I readied myself for a late-night drive to the German border, using the route we had always used twenty years ago, as I simply knew no alternative. I had a car, I had money, and I had a foolish urgency forcing me on, convinced I would somehow find Kiffmet in the city of Venlo, in the Netherlands, without having an appointment or any idea why he should even be there at all.

Driving the legal way, it is forty-five minutes to the border, and around fifteen more to Venlo. Late at night, with not many police around, it took me twenty-eight minutes, driving like a road-rage psychopath, to get the border control post into my line of sight. The dope I had smoked with Funky was already wearing off, my window was open, and I had assured to look sober and proper, as the toll and police present would not be amused by another dirty drug wreck showing up.

The rest was easy, one straight line, until a right-off led into a circle going over to the left, and then straight into the city of Venlo. I like it simple, now that I am older. So many memories, back then, those years were good, the worst we had experienced in that phase of our lives was the typical troubles of young adults, a cheating girlfriend was among the fiercest.

The parking lot was a bit off, and I remember that walking and slipping on the cobblestone was already a threat back then. Much had changed, but much was still, just like I remembered it. I felt very weird at that moment, staring at our old coffee shop of choice, somehow hoping Kiffmet would simply stare out of the window. Surreal, and somehow stupid, I would agree.

But at that moment, Kiffmet DID show up at the window. Aged, still bearded, but less aggressive and clad in more traditional clothing than in his younger years. It felt like a brother reported dead returning home, unharmed. It felt as if God was still with us.

We had a very long talk that night. It was a special we both knew would not happen again. Kiffmet, formally Farid-Mohammed, had one day purchased the old coffee shop, as his religion had prepared him for a modest life. And he had done more. To me, it was a mere comment when I, back then, told him about that silly occult theory of the Liber Kiffmet.

But Kiffmet had been persistent, wise, and thorough on it. He had learned to operate his business, which is legal in the Netherlands, and when he was acquainted with the weed growers and financially secure, he had started to search for the golden book of dopehead kind. I blinked, not in joy, but in a brain barely able to handle the information it had just received.

Kiffmet, as I had much too often nicknamed him, was exactly that. On his personal, well, a crusade is a bad term for Muslims. On his quest to smoke the expensive dope, and one day have that vision, for real. Not faking it by fooling himself. My knees became shaky when he told me that the old Golden Lebanese we so rarely could afford, back then, was by now in a price range of twenty-eight to thirty-five euros.

Sheesh. I had always been a poor loser, but that was... No, it was worth it, make no mistake. The entire effect was different, and much more pleasant, than with the cheap, more toxic variants.

And it hit hard, in a good way, but it meant being off into dreamland for eight to ten hours. The THC oil slowly dripped from those brown crumbs of pressed THC supplicants; it was like a form of magic. As if even people, like us, could have their paradise and a happy end.

We drank tea, and I already planned to take a road trip back, when Kiffmet changed the plan.

You tried to reunite the four of us, and you did so without disregarding each friend's decision. Said Kiffmet. No shame in having to accept that result. But, please, don't hurry back, like a beaten dog, when I want you, as a companion, on one more attempt to make it into the secret zone of dreamland.

I was born in Germany, and felt ashamed, as our capitalist view calls it, parasitic, to not pay for our dope. Kiffmet, though, insisted, reminding me he was a coffee shop owner now, and really could afford one brown crumb of pressed THC supplicant, as a memorial, for the good old moments, which would never come back. And because he was the coolest believer in the Liber Kiffmet whom I had ever met. He had arranged his life with his secret quest for it. I felt no envy; I rejoiced, for he had made it. Funky sold out to the new job, Stoner fell back onto family, and I failed to ever make it anyway. Kiffmet had done it right, preserving his true self and arranging himself with the monetary needs of society.

I told him I would gladly be his companion, and just as honestly, I told him that I would not deserve to find that secret zone, as he called it. But I knew his answer, as the kindness in his eyes, that kindness, which he could even embody along with temper tantrums or fierceness... Sometimes one simply does not want to be alone or do certain chores all alone. I knew that feeling, and while we were not the companionship of the Lord of the Rings movie, I had nothing better to do, no duties, and no obligations.

The feeling of an old friend around made him stronger, bolstered against his doubts, and reminded him of exactly the good pinpointing his way through the dope-induced dreamland. Video games had that multiplayer concept, but the myth of such being possible in dreams, when only one is close & legit enough with the supposed like-minded, such never happened to any of us. I am sure of that, for we all would have felt the need to tell the tale to literally anybody with ears.

The brown crumb of pressed THC supplicant hit hard, and we decided to make ourselves two joints, excluding the fake solidarity gesture of handing the one joint around. Instead, leaning back into armchairs, lights were dimmed, soft music, fruit drinks, ashtrays, and some snacks were within range. No, I did not feel immature and childish; I felt it was the goodbye I owed an old friend of mine.

And then it hit me. Kiffmet had always been there. The Liber Kiffmet was a gift. It was HIS gift to us, so we could, at least for some hours, feel that divine bliss, which we only knew from higher quality dope and weed. Yes, after around six hours, the divine revelation finally reached me. The Liber Kiffmet may even be eternal, as we mortal searchers age away, but that joyful moment of peaceful harmony with the universe and godhood, the drug was like that, when no cheap cut spoiled it.

But traffic sucks, and I had to rush back to the car, eager to make it across the border before the job traffickers would be forced onto the same roads. Especially the trucks make the driving a pain in the behind. And admittedly, the joyride of THC can keep us happy and relaxed for hours, yet at the price of factual reality becoming more and more stressful to handle, and as I had noted before, smoking dope or weed also made one a nicotine addict, which was risky, and was replaced by vaping electronic cigarettes two decades ago.

When the shot fell, I was dropped easily, still intoxicated by the golden, oily brown crumb of pressed THC supplicant. I even knew it was Jessica. Stoner's younger sister. And I knew why. Our Kiffmet never had wings, nor a scythe, but I got that now. My memories were a little bit outside of reality. Or maybe I have been a habitual liar?

I had indeed killed Stoner, used his smartphone to lure Funky into an ambush, then cut his throat, smiling, and then I drove to finish off Kiffmet, exactly on this induced road to paradise. Yeah, let's face it: My supposed friends were a bunch of abusive and narcissistic misanthropes, and outside of my occult daydream, I was just an envious, delusional, and craven killer, who finally got stopped by a vigilante sister instead of by police. Smiling, the dying psycho's last amalgamation of my dreams, my thoughts, and my feelings. Golden Lebanese, the secret zone, Liber Kiffmet!

THE END!