The Third Season

***Please keep in mind, as you read this, that this is a very rough draft of what will, one day, be a novel… I am currently revising/rewriting…***

And in the third season, there was a wedding in Airdrie, Alberta.  Marie’s second cousin Amalie, who had moved to Alberta the previous summer, was getting’ hitched.  It was her second marriage.  She had come to the province in order to escape Jean, her first husband, an abusive drunk.  She brought a two year old daughter with her, who played flower girl at the small ceremony in the groom’s back yard.  Marcel had always hated weddings and had a viable excuse, namely, an early shift the next morning so Marie talked Luc into coming instead.  He agreed, on the condition that he could bring a couple of his buddies with him.
The wedding, in Luc’s own words, was a “fuckin’ gong show”.  Amalie had always experimented with various drugs and chose men who did more than dabble: it had been the downfall of her previous marriage and would, eventually, be the downfall of this one.  Victor liked his puffs, especially.  The ceremony was short, but the party lasted well into the night.
The pot ran out by 11:00 PM.  Victor cursed himself for not inviting his dealer to the wedding.  Everyone was more than half baked, but wanted more.  Marie was commissioned by the groom to ask her youngest son to score more pot.  Luc, by this time, was pie-eyed.  He had made an oath to himself, after the fracas that was his brother’s wedding, not to drink in excess at public gatherings–he smoked instead.  Luc was high and well-behaved.
“Luc, we’ve got a big fuckin’ problem here.  Pierre’s out of pot and everyone wants some more.  Do you or any of your buddies got any?”  Luc rolled his glassy eyes: “Christ, ma, you trying to get me fuckin’ arrested?  Brother Jean’s right over there!”  He then smiled and shot her a wink: she understood and went to tell the caterers to follow his lead.
The wedding was on October 28th and carved pumpkins littered back yards and front porches of the neighborhood.  Luc surveyed the yard and called one of the caterers over saying, “Take this knife over to one of those pumpkins and cut the fucker open, wouldja?”  The caterer, who Marie had spoken to only moments before, complied with Luc’s demand.  He hastened over to the yard’s largest pumpkin with Luc’s boy scout blade in hand and pumpkin murder in his eyes.
He attacked the sacrificial pumpkin with a rage one usually reserves for a sex offender.  The blade, barely an inch long, didn’t make it through the orange squash’s thick exterior.  He noticed that the pumpkin wasn’t hollow, as he expected.  The sound of his fists was not cavernous beats as he anticipated, rather, thick thumps.  His prey was surprisingly resilient.  Finally, he saw why, as the pumpkin opened up for him like a rare, orange breed of fleshy flower.
The pumpkin was tightly packed with BC’s finest, most aromatic strain of pot.  In place of seeds and orange guts, was fresh bud, dense, green and succulent.  He looked around to see if his odd behavior had attracted the eyes of those in attendance.  It hadn’t. Chances are that even if it had, the guests would have paid no mind.  He pocketed some of the green and brought the rest to Luc on a silver platter.  Luc smiled, and quickly rolled some joints with great ease.  The caterer passed them to the crowd.
The pumpkin pot was sparked and smoked and the wedding guests embarked on a collective hallucination.  They all saw Christ that evening.  They saw Louis Riel too.  It was two separate and distinct visions, which happened in inverse, chronological order.  Riels’ death came first.  The wedding guests saw the executioner.  They saw hempen Saskatchewan noose.  They all saw Riel, prophetic and dark eyed and were surprised by the brutality of the procession and surprised, as well, by the response of those gathered in front of the gallows.  People cheered blood-thirsty cheered and Riel swayed dead.
Next, Jesus.  He dies on a familiar cross.  The cross is hideous, contrasted to the golden translations hanging upon many of the wedding guest’s necks.  Old wood: unadorned, unsanded, and stained with the blood of Christ but also the darker blood of many previous enemies of the state.  People cheer as they watch him die too.  Dice are tossed, linens torn.  The king of the Jews and the king of the Métis died side by side.
“Where the fuck did this shit come from?” the wedding party asked aloud.  “I have no idea”  “Must be from BC.”  “Nothing good comes from BC, except for pot, I guess.”  Laughter.  “Why the hell didn’t we smoke this first?”  “I don’t know.”  Exhausted, the guests left in the early morning light in search of coffee shop: brake lights lit up and shut off.  The party was over.
This was the first of many strange occurrences documented concerning Luc’s life in Alberta.  While other stories are in circulation, don’t believe them, lest you be deceived: this is a Gospel truth.  After the wedding, constantly harassed for pot by many of the wedding guests, Luc continued on up to Drumheller.  He needed to escape for a while.  He needed to be alone.

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