THE TRAINWRECK. Brought to you by thcfarrmer…..

[JIMKSI64]

I think they need to run murder hornet stories again. They just did not get a fair shake.

 

[ChairmanFester]

With parm garlic asparagus in white cheese sauce.

 

[ChairmanFester]

 

[ChairmanFester]

 

[ChairmanFester]

Keeping that light moving all over a couple times a day. tied all the way out like a horticultural smut magazine. I kept a lot of leaf but it's leaf getting light, and I clipped out some low buds early on to keep the middle and top plump. Fingers crossed but rolling smoooooooooth.

 

[JIMKSI64]

Nice night out. 88 day 63 night for a week.
So many peepers it's like a cord.
Surrounded by Citronella candles reading a new 40k novel the library just got in.
Might be real high

 

[ChairmanFester]

I have so many 40k memes and shit, I don't know why I haven't read any. I even kind of know some lore accidentally.

 

[Florida_Mike]

 

[Mikedin]

What’s up homies!

 

[NisterMice]

Now that is a great story! Could listen to stuff like this all day.

 

[NisterMice]

What’s up homies!

Whaddup Mike!

Hopefully your drinking night went better than mine (some weeks ago)

 

[Justlovetogrow]

She's gonna beat him to death with a shoe.

Nope can confirm mrs did not kill me but I’m thinkin the farm should have a bretho attached one must not post if over .12

 

[NisterMice]

Guys, I think we did it! We got the mofo back on track

Now who will wreck it this time? Oh man this will be epic

 

[Florida_Mike]

 

[MartyMcFly42oh]

Guys, I think we did it! We got the mofo back on track

Now who will wreck it this time? Oh man this will be epic

Here’s a quick look back to what I was growing when I first started posting on this trainwreck.
Damn she’s frosty:Forum Stomper from Mephisto.

 

[MartyMcFly42oh]

Smells really good at Marty’s house of chicken tonight. Had a dozen tomatoes from the garden getting a lil too soft so I roasted them, threw in garlic onions and Thai chilies and a single habanero. Lots of olive oil , some camp spice , kosher salt and fresh cracked black pepper. .

 

[Florida_Mike]

Meanwhile, ole Nyar's out trying to catch some memes for you all to enjoy...

 

[Putthataway]

Just got done trimming up sort a kind of the 1/8 plants that decided to produce seeds. No wiener no balls . Top doesn’t seem to have seeds we’ll see how that goes I jarred the tops and as I got lower some started having seeds. One thing that was odd is that some buds are completely void of seeds. Smokes really nice has a completely different smell after you break up nugget with seeds.

 

[MartyMcFly42oh]

Lazy Lightning getting ready to chop next weekend. Heavily pollinated. Should have some seeds byr mid October. Buds are small bud ultra sticky and loaded with seeds.

 

[Florida_Mike]

excerpt from my latest:

The Line King

In the heart of the emerald jungle, where the canopy stitched the sky shut and cicadas sewed the night with pins of sound, a young lion named Kivuli learned the shape of power. He learned it from his mother first—the quiet weight behind a stare, the sudden whip of muscle in tall grass—and later from the pride, who followed him at dusk when his silhouette already looked like a crown.

He should have become everything the savanna expected: a gold-mane king with a throat made for thunder. Instead, on a moonless night, he found a different kind of lightning.

The campers were messy gods: they cooked meat till the dark smelled like a festival, laughed at nothing, and slept with their soft throats pointed at the stars. Kivuli circled them once, twice, a sleek rumor in the scrub. A zipper rasped. A bag glowed white inside. He sniffed. The powder smelled sharp and electric, like rain trying to happen.

He dipped his nose, sneezed, blinked—and the world broke open like a struck match.

Colors sharpened. Sounds braided. Every mosquito was a symphony. Kivuli felt ten feet tall and bulletproof and gloriously, stupidly certain he could outrun the moon. He paced the campsite, vibrating with ideas. Could he invent new gazelles? Punch a baobab into orbit? He loved everyone and everything, especially himself. When the campers woke to slashed tents and missing “Colombian Lightning,” they found pawprints across the cooler lid, neat as calligraphy, dusted white.

That was the beginning...

tbc

Kivuli hunted differently after that. He haunted trailheads and gravel turnouts. He learned the smell of battery-powered speakers and plastic shot glasses, of citronella and the ghostly note that clung to credit cards. He drifted through campfire smoke like a superstition and left with a backpack clenched in his teeth, trotting into the trees while drunk voices argued about raccoons.

The animals noticed. The monkeys called him The Line King, a joke so dangerous they delivered it from the thin safety of high branches. The elephants—who remembered droughts and wars and the year the river ran backward—shook their big heads and said nothing. Hyenas tried to laugh. The sound came out wrong. They wailed like baby seals singing soprano in a boy band archipelago of bass until the chimpanzees, armed with clubs and poor taste, ended the show. “Three nights,” said Vuvu the hornbill, perched on a skull-top stump. “He hasn’t slept in three.”
“Nonsense,” answered a mongoose, eyes huge at noon. “He sleeps between blinks.”

Kivuli knew he was becoming lore. He could taste it each time the rush wore off and the jungle returned in standard definition—flat greens, basic wind. Without the white fire, his bones felt heavy as termite mounds. He swore he’d quit. He swore it in the lonely blue before dawn, swore it with his tongue dry and his heart kicking at his ribs like it wanted out. He meant it every time. Then twilight would crack like a knuckle and he’d catch a familiar scent: carelessness, curiosity, greed. He would prowl again.

​

---

Word came from a baboon with one ear (lost to a fence and a bet) that something special had landed on the coast. “Big men with smaller men,” the baboon said, miming guns and sunglasses. “A parcel heavy as thunder. For private clients.” He leered. “Private. Rich.”

Kivuli felt a tuning fork go off under his ribs.

He ran.

He ran for three days, following the smell of cash and sea salt and jet fuel. He didn’t bother with stealth. He bounded through drowsy villages at dawn, the same cautionary tale in different languages, the same children pointing. By the time he reached the mangrove road, he was down to vibrating bones and a smile sharpened to a problem.

The compound sat where the jungle smudged into sea, a ring of light among rusted shrimping gear. Trucks with mirrored windows idled beside coolers the size of bathtubs. Men in polo shirts looked at their phones like they were checking on a sick god. The air shouted: money, menace, arrogance.

Kivuli gathered himself behind a crate and planned. He could wait for a distraction—gunshots, fireworks, a dumb argument about football. Or he could be the distraction. The second idea tasted better.

He trotted out of the trees like royalty late to a banquet.

For one pure instant the men simply looked. The effect a lion has at close range is gravitational; it takes effort to remember you’re a person with choices. Kivuli held their eyes and felt enormous, ancient, inevitable.

Then somebody screamed, somebody else fired, and the night came apart.

Kivuli went through them like water around stones—fast, precise, leaving wet astonishment in his wake. Bullets snapped leaves. A cooler tumbled from the truck, popped, and spilled its treasure into the sand: bricks like wedding cakes wrapped in plastic.

He smashed one open with a paw. White mist leapt in the breeze. He buried his nose.

The jungle sang.

He rocketed down the beach, a comet with a tail of sparks, and the men followed, swearing, tripping, making grand promises to saints unfamiliar with logistics. Kivuli cut inland, leapt a shallow creek, and fell among tents. Campers froze in tableau: a girl mid-sip from a glowstick cup, a boy holding a guitar that wasn’t tuned to any known universe, a man kneeling to tape glow-in-the-dark arrows to his Crocs.

“Whoa,” someone said. “A big dog.”

Kivuli shredded a duffel in a single aristocratic gesture. A snow of tiny bags rose like startled moths. The campers became helpful in the way of people who believe they are part of a magic trick. “Dude wants a bump,” the glowstick girl explained, solemn, to the worst person she’d ever meet.

Rangers crashed from the dark with flashlights and purpose. The cartel men arrived with guns and grievance. The campers screamed. The guitar finally chose a key and died. Kivuli leapt onto the hood of a jeep, white dust combed through his mane like frost, and roared. It wasn’t a threat. It was a thesis: I am the problem you deserve.

He sprang into the forest.

tbc