Dan was fucked and he knew it.  He had been fucked for weeks, but now, he was really fucked.  Boned.  Screwed.  Ready for the slaughterhouse.  In the sights.  At the front of the charge.  Cooked.  Baked. 
    Those last two were more apt than Dan wanted to think about.  It was all his fault, really.  He'd borrowed money from the mob-money he knew he couldn't pay back-and blown everything that didn't go to paying the rent and buying food he spent on coke and cheap hookers.  How the fuck had he been so stupid?  How had he managed to get himself in this position?  Why had he spent so much of that mob money on coke?  All these questions whirled through his mind as he sat wrapped in plastic in his warm, dark prison.  In the end, the answers didn't matter.  In the end, all that mattered was that he had been turned into weed. 
    They had come to his house in the middle of the night, three of them, and Dan had gone willingly.  He knew there was no point in putting up a fight.  He was in pretty bad shape from all the coke he'd been doing, and he knew it.  These Family boys would kill him if he tried anything, he knew it.  He'd seen it happen, once.  Some poor shmuck had mouthed off to one of them, and he'd pulled a fucking Magnum out of his jacket and shot the guy in the face.  Dan had heard that the Viscotti family looked for psychopaths when they needed new muscle, and judging from what he'd seen of them, it was probably true.  They threw him in the back seat of a Buick, got in the car themselves, and drove off. 
    No one had said a word for the duration of the car ride.  The radio, tuned to some classic rock station, played only songs Dan had never cared for, and it occurred to him as the car made its way through downtown that these could be the last songs he would ever hear.  He knew a person's chances of survival when Family muscle was involved weren't very good, especially if he could see where he was going; they'd probably kill him just to keep him from telling anyone where they'd taken him.  So he decided to enjoy the music, but one of the goons turned the radio off as soon as he made his decision.  The silence in the absence of the radio weighed heavily on Dan. 
    Finally, when the car parked inside an old factory on the edge of the city, Dan was kicked out of the car.  He landed face first in the dirt, and felt two pairs of arms drag him unceremoniously across a cold floor.  He looked up and saw a bright light that illuminated what looked like a phone booth, which stood in the middle of the room.  He began to cry.  He wasn't sure what was going to happen, but he was sure it was going to be terrible.  The arms threw him  into the phone booth, and closed the door behind him.
    The booth's walls were all painted red.  There was a light on the ceiling, and four metal things that looked like fire extinguishers on the ceiling.  Dan looked around, trying to figure out what was going to happen to him, and that was the last thing he remembered before the bright pink beam had struck him.  The next thing he knew, he was looking up into the face of one of the thugs that had brought him to the factory. 
    "You've been turned into marijuana, Mr. Banks," said the thug.  "Roughly a gram, I think, but I'm just eyeballing.  You might be a little less than that.  Enjoy the rest of your so-called life."  He laughed.  "I don't even know if you can hear me.  This is absurd. Whatever."  Dan realized that the thug had been holding him in his hand as he spoke to him.  He felt himself falling through the air, and he landed in a plastic bag.  He watched the zipper above him close, and tried to understand what had happened to him.  He couldn't have been turned into marijuana.  That just didn't make sense.  It wasn't actually possible.  And yet, what else could have happened?  He coudln't feel his arms or legs; he didn't feel like he was in his own body; he'd been zipped into a plastic bag.  He was utterly powerless, whatever the situation.  Dan began the long, arduous process of accepting his fate, and eventually, he became resigned to the inevitability of his being smoked or cooked or something like that. 
    Time passed, but Dan didn't know how much.  Eventually, the lighting he was in changed, and he felt his bag change hands.  He'd been sold.  He wondered to whom.  His new owner kept him somewhere warm and soft.  He guessed that he had been sold to a girl, judging by the tone of the voice he kept hearing, but he couldn't be sure.  He hadn't ever actually seen her. 
    Finally, the bag opened.  Giant fingers reached in and grabbed Dan, who had come to the conclusion that he had been turned into a single nug.  His owner was indeed a girl, and she was very attractive, which gave Dan a little bit of comfort, somehow.  She had long black hair, and she wore thick black glasses over green eyes, eyes that were currently sizing Dan up.  Dan watched her shrug, and saw her other hand coming up towards him.  It grabbed him, and he felt himself tear in half.  "Half for the blunt," said his owner with a smile, "and half for the brownies."  She dropped both halves of the nug on a piece of paper on her desk and sat down.  Dan was conscious of both halves of himself, and he discovered very quickly that being in two places at once can be kind of a lot to handle.  He was experiencing a very bad case of sensory overload.  He watched from two perspectives as the giant girl who had bought him grabbed a cigarillo from her desk drawer.   She opened the wrapper, took out the cigarillo, and stuck it in her mouth, moving it in and out, in and out, covering it with spit.  As Dan watched, he noticed her cheeks start to turn red, and he saw her free hand moving toward her crotch.  She closed her eyes and moaned softly as she pulled the cigarillo out of her mouth for the last time.  Apparently, this girl was horny. 
    She gutted the cigarillo, and grabbed one half of Dan.  He felt himself tearing again, only this time not evenly down his middle and not just once.  This time, he was torn up into dozens of tiny pieces and dropped in the empty tobacco leaf.  He looked up at his owner, who smiled down at him from above, unaware that the weed she was about to roll up into a blunt was aware.  Dan felt himself rising, and saw her face coming closer.  Her mouth loomed above him, and as her tongue emerged from between her lips, Dan felt terror.  She licked the leaf and rolled the blunt up completely.  When she was done, she put it in her drawer and left the room.  Dan was alone, part of him still sitting out on the desk and the rest in the drawer.  All he coul do now was wait.  He was prepared for his fate.  It wasn't worth fighting.  This girl-who was definitely a solid 9/10-was going to smokke him.  There were worse ways to go.
    As she left the room, the girl swallowed.  Dan hadn't even noticed, but while she had been licking the blunt, a piece of him had stuck to her tongue.  When she noticed the little tiny flake of weed on her tongue, the girl considered spitting it out, but decided that swallowing would be more discrete.  Besides, she firmly believed that spitters were quitters.  As this piece of Dan was falling