As far back as Duke could remember, he’d always wanted to be a ’90s rapper. Not a modern trap star. Not an algorithm draped in Balenciaga. He wanted to be West Coast—lowrider royalty, swaddled in silk, making driveway music videos with a camcorder and a bucket of chronic.
Today, that fantasy felt a little closer. Because today, Duke opened a jar of Skywalker OG.
The smell hit him like a Stone Cold chairshot to the chest. Sharp. Funky. Aggressive. The kind of smell that didn’t have to ask for your attention. Funky cheese. Garlic. Old wood. Sweat. Spice. The bouquet had no shame and no apologies, like if a charcuterie board got left in a hot car but somehow came out sexier. Sweatier. Duke grinned.
He pinched a nug between his fingers and turned it under the light. Dense. Resin-soaked. A perfect emerald boulder, trimmed with care and sparkling like it was dipped in diamond dust. The kind of flower that looks privileged. Pampered. Like someone gave it a fade before its album release.
He broke it open, and the room filled with that thick, sour, spicy musk. A smell that made Duke nostalgic for things he never actually lived through. It smelled like 1993. Like stolen sips of malt liquor, bootleg tapes, and burnt CD jewel cases. Like the opening bassline of “Regulate.”
He packed the bowl and lit it with reverence.
The first hit was all gas and garlic; bright and biting, with a strange little soapy twist that coated his mouth like a secret ingredient. He coughed once, hard, and immediately started laughing.
“Oh yeah,” he rasped. “That’s the one.”
The Skywalker OG High
The high crashed over him. One minute he was adjusting the volume on the stereo, and the next, he was fully immersed in a self-directed music video fantasy. The track? “Insane in the Brain,” because… obviously. The vibe? Summer pool party in the hills, bikini girls doing cannonballs in slow-mo, smoke rising off barbecue grills and blunt tips. In Duke’s head, he was in a silk button-down, gold chain bouncing with every step as he mugged for the invisible camera.
“This is what weed is supposed to feel like,” he declared to his imaginary entourage. “None of that jittery, fruit-flavored TikTok crap. This is OG. This is history.”
He danced once, in place. A little shoulder shimmy. He spun. He pantomimed riding in a convertible, leaning out the side like he was waving to fans. He reached for a phantom mic and spit a few bars that would’ve made 12-year-old Duke weep with joy, or perhaps embarrassment. And then…
Duke felt eyes on him.
He froze.
Caught in the Act by Louie
Louie, his basset hound, stood in the doorway. Watching. Head tilted. Eyebrows raised in what could only be described as bewildered judgment. Or slight concern for his friend’s mental health.
Duke dropped the act immediately, spine straightening like he’d been caught shoplifting. “It’s not what it looks like,” he muttered. Louie blinked. “…Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like.”
There was a pause.
Then Louie waddled in, slowly, and flopped down in front of the subwoofer Duke had dragged out from storage for “ambience.” Louie always liked the gentle thrum, his version of a Calabasas sound bath. Duke sat beside him, still holding the bowl, the joint tucked behind his ear like a prop.
You ever hit weed that makes your dog look like he’s about to ask if you’ve been drinking enough water? Louie snorted. Duke could’ve sworn it was a laugh.
Duke reached for the lighter. “Skywalker OG is… it’s not just weed, man. It’s a time machine. It’s the lighthouse in the storm. It’s the reason I fell in love with this plant in the first place.”
He sparked the bowl again, handed it ceremonially in Louie’s direction. “Your move, holy man.” Louie did not move. “Responsible. I respect that.” Duke hit it instead. “But you take the next verse.”
Cypress Hill blared through the speakers. Outside, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the living room. The fantasy was fading, but the feeling stayed—a heavy, head-wrapped warmth that made the world feel softer, slower, and, somehow, more righter.
For a few more hours, everything was perfect. Just a man, his dog, and the last great OG.
