Chapter 1: The Smokey Coconut Shuffle
The sun had long dipped behind the fog-veiled cliffs of Pot Bay, casting its orange afterglow onto a city that never really sobered up. Lanterns swayed gently from crooked beams, and somewhere in the maze of alleys below, someone was either making a deal or losing one.
Johnny adjusted his worn hemp cloak, dusted with salt and sea air, and pushed open the warped wooden door of the Smokey Coconut. A warm wall of sound and stank greeted him—half laughter, half coughing. The room was thick with smoke that seemed to have existed here longer than most of the regulars. He paused to take it in. This was exactly the kind of place someone might know something.
Wooden tables were clustered together like gossiping old ladies. Mismatched chairs, cracked mugs, and unidentifiable stains made up the décor. Above the bar hung a taxidermied sea bass with a blunt in its mouth and a plaque that read, “Caught High & Dry – 1187.”
Johnny weaved his way toward a dimly lit corner booth, nursing hopes of overhearing a tale or rumor worth chasing. His goal was simple, or so he thought: find leads on the mythical Winter Weed Warriors and their rumored strain of Glacier Ganja—a cold-burning bud said to turn even the tamest soul into a frost-fueled berserker.
He didn’t sit long before voices behind him pulled at his attention like a good bassline.
“—I tell ya, it was glowing like frost-fire. We called it Icy Reaper... or maybe Snowbong’s Bane, can’t remember—either way, it’ll shave the hair off yer lungs and make your heartbeat do a drum solo.”
Johnny froze mid-sip. He slid his mug down and glanced back—casually, he thought, though probably more like an eager puppy. At the table behind him sat three of the strangest folks he’d ever seen, and Johnny had once bartered for munchies with a sentient mushroom.
The Trio of Trouble
Dankmar the Drifter, slouched like a collapsing bookshelf, was rolling a joint with paper that might’ve been ancient scroll. His gnarled fingers moved with muscle memory as his single gold tooth caught the lantern light.
Slick Rickle, all jittery energy and twitching whiskers, sat on a pile of cushions to match the human-sized table. He tapped one claw rhythmically on a tin box marked “not traps”.
And then there was Mistress Vexa, lounging across the bench like she owned the tavern, the town, and possibly Johnny’s soul. Her violet eyes flicked toward him, calculating and amused.
Johnny cleared his throat and turned fully toward them.
“Excuse me... did I hear you mention glacier weed?”
The table stilled. It was as if a secret had been spoken aloud at a cult meeting.
Dankmar squinted at him with one eye, the other blinking independently.
“And what would a bright-eyed buttercup like you want with the frostbitten fire, eh?”
“You look more like a pineapple kush kind of lad,” Rickle added, snickering.
Johnny smiled awkwardly and held up his mug in a friendly gesture.
“I’m just… curious. I’m a member of the Strain Hunters. Name’s Johnny. I’ve been traveling a while and... well, I’m chasing stories.”
That got their attention. Vexa leaned forward.
“Strain Hunter, huh? Well, aren’t you a fresh nug off the vine. Tell you what, Johnny,” she purred, “why don’t you join us? Buy a round. And maybe... we’ll tell you a little story.”
Johnny hesitated for only a second before nodding eagerly.
“Of course! Drinks are on me.”
Half-Truths and Whole Scams
Three drinks turned into six. Six drinks turned into a pitcher. The ale here was strong, suspiciously fruity, and left a menthol aftertaste.
The trio wove tales like fishermen telling stories of sea monsters, only every sea monster was stoned, and half of them ran black-market smoke circles in the northern wastes.
“I once rode a snow-saber into the frost fields,” said Rickle, slurring slightly. “The glacier weed—makes ya forget pain, fear... basic hygiene…”
“The Winter Weed Warriors don’t talk,” whispered Dankmar. “They commune. Through puffs of smoke that shape into words. You breathe in a sentence and cough out the answer.”
“And the glacier weed?” Vexa’s voice dropped dramatically. “They say it grows only from the tears of the Cryo-Colossus, harvested during the moon's coldest sigh. It’s not smoked… it’s whispered to.”
Johnny clung to every word. He took notes—terrible, ale-smeared notes—and laughed along with their jokes, all while failing to notice his own gold pouch slowly shrinking.
Eventually, Rickle excused himself “to powder his nose,” and Vexa stood with a stretch.
“We’ve given you more than most would, darling,” she said sweetly. “But be careful where you chase frost-dreams. Some legends bite back.”
Johnny blinked. The room was spinning slightly, and his head felt like someone had stuffed it with marshmallows and regret.
“Wait... you didn’t finish—what about the map? The... the location...?”
But they were gone.
Morning Regret
Johnny woke up in a cold puddle in some forgotten alley behind the tavern. His cloak was still there. His boots—thankfully. But his gold? His notes? Gone.
He groaned, clutching his head.
“Damn it... classic Johnny...”
He sat up slowly, blinking against the morning sun as it pierced the alley like divine judgment.
The hangover was just beginning. But so was the real adventure.
