A Review of First Class Gas by First Class Genetics
Duke had no business flying business with a jar of First Class Gas in his backpack, but he’d convinced himself first class meant immunity. It meant he was untouchable. Obviously, he was still stoned from the night before, because handcuffs still fit snugly on first-class wrists.
It wasn’t just the champagne on tap or the hot towels folded like origami swans that fed Duke’s delusions. First class carried an unspoken agreement that you are cocooned in luxury, absolved of petty mortal responsibility. Nobody frisks the guy in seat 2A while he’s sipping a thirty-dollar bourbon. Nobody asks questions about the carry-on contraband tucked under a Foos Gone Wild hoodie.
The jar of First Class Gas by First Class Genetics sat buried beneath a copy of Gravity’s Rainbow and a bag of stale plantain chips, shielded by poor planning and plausible deniability. The label—a WWII bomber raining kush missiles—radiated menace. Garlic, pine, rosemary, sage, and a throat-scorching blast of jet fuel. A category of aroma that didn’t respect personal space.
At 30,000 feet, Duke cracked it for a peek and instantly regretted it, the cabin filling with something resembling a tire fire. A businessman adjusted his tie. A baby started crying. Someone muttered, “Jesus Christ, is the plane leaking?”
Duke smiled nervously.
First Class Gas was living up to its name.
Despite the obvious threats, the buds looked like Florentine sculptures: muted emerald and deep forest green, frosted with a glacier’s worth of trichomes. A headstash masquerading as luxury. Beneath the aggression, a strange sweetness emerged—overripe mango, sumo oranges, cucumbers fresh out the garden.
Contradictions that somehow harmonized, like Charlie Parker riffing over a trap beat.
First Class Gas & The Bathroom Break
By hour two, Duke was growing impatient.
He shuffled toward the bathroom, jar tucked under his arm like a family heirloom, and inside the cramped, plastic-lit cabin, he packed the one-hitter and sparked it.
The first rip hit like cannon fire.
Flavors collided—bitter citrus zest and kerosene-soaked spice rack—leaving a dry, chalky mouthfeel, like chewing underripe bananas without water. He coughed once, then again, wiping his mouth with a towel meant for clean hands. The mirror stared back, accusatory.
Then came the surge.
Thirty minutes of pure, paranoid turbulence, brain revving like an overclocked engine threatening to seize, thoughts firing faster than air traffic control could manage.
Too much, too fast, Duke started gripping the sink.
He pictured headlines: AMERICAN TOURIST FRIES BRAIN MID-FLIGHT OVER CARIBBEAN AIRSPACE.
But the panic crested, it eased, softened, and a warmth spread through his body. His eyelids grew heavy. Laughter bubbled up uninvited.
He floated back to 2A and collapsed into the leather like a man parachuting into a couch.
“Rough turbulence, sir?” the flight attendant asked, eyebrow cocked.
“Something like that,” Duke said, grinning—laughing to himself at her half-baked attempt at The Rock’s signature eyebrow.
First Class Customs Paranoia
The wheels screeched onto the tarmac, applause breaking out from rows behind him. Duke usually thought clapping was cringe, but relief got the better of him, so he joined in.
Still wrapped in a weighted blanket of euphoria, he tightened his grip on the carry-on. The jar was radioactive now—humming with imaginary neon signs and giant arrows pointing straight at him:
STONER SMUGGLES KUSH INTO SANTO DOMINGO.
Customs was a fluorescent gauntlet. Palm tree posters. Severe warnings about drug trafficking. Sweat prickled down his back. His brain, still revving from the bathroom hit, ran scenarios on a loop:
- Dogs tearing through his plantain chips.
- An officer cracking the seal, garlic-diesel stinkbomb flooding the room.
- A holding cell where Duke’s homespun charm didn’t translate and explanations only made things worse.
His turn came.
The officer didn’t look up. Just stamped the passport and waved him through.
Duke exhaled like he’d just landed Apollo 11 with both eyes closed.
At the Baggage Claim
The carousel rattled to life, spitting out beat-up Samsonites and duct-taped duffels. Families crowded the rail—kids climbing carts, abuelas waving at no one in particular.
Duke’s suitcase circled twice before he spotted it. He lunged, yanking it free with a grunt. Somewhere inside, the jar seemed to sigh in relief.
A First Class Family Reunion
Then came the sound—his family. A tidal wave of joy:
“Duke! Mira, llegó Duke!”
Hands grabbed him, hugs stacking on hugs, cheeks pressing into cheeks. His aunt smelled like rosewater and fried empanadas. Cousins shouted over one another, already arguing about who gets shotgun despite all being in their late thirties. His uncle slapped him on the back hard enough to jostle the jar.
The high folded perfectly into the moment. Every laugh landed warmer. Every hug hit deeper.
Someone shoved a pastelito into Duke’s hand, munchies arriving right on cue. Flaky crust. Molten beef. Powdered sugar clinging to his fingers. He devoured it like a starving artist at a free buffet.
Duke leaned against a pillar—suitcase in one hand, pastry in the other. The island’s humid air wrapped around him like a second skin. He thought about the flight, the bathroom, the customs panic. The sheer audacity of nearly hotboxing an airplane lavatory.
Above him, fluorescent lights buzzed. Around him, family chaos spun freely.
He wiped sugar from his lips and smiled.
Read Lucas’s full review of First Class Gas by First Class Genetics on Budist.
