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THE TRAINWRECK. Brought to you by thcfarrmer…..

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THE TRAINWRECK. Brought to you by thcfarrmer…..

by Captspaulding · Started
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Discussion below · 95,543 replies
Page 4138 of 4778 · Replies 82,741–82,760 of 95,544
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#82,741
This inspired me...
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Mac


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a3ed485f32476337753dafe4652066dc.jpg
 
#82,743
MartyMcFly42oh said:
Hats off to the MacGyver memes 🤣 growing up watching him improvise with available raw materials to complete complex tasks taught me how to make the coolest bongs ever as a teenager,
Click to expand...
Same here man! A-Team, MacGyver, Knight Rider... all tought me realistic ways to deal with any issue. 😂

I also loved the reference in Half Baked
 
#82,745
MartyMcFly42oh said:
Hats off to the MacGyver memes 🤣 growing up watching him improvise with available raw materials to complete complex tasks taught me how to make the coolest bongs ever as a teenager,
Click to expand...
We made one out of PVC pipe. Named it el hefe’ with it written on the tube. My friend drove home with it in a bag hanging from his mirror. Parked the car and his mom found it the next morning.😂🤣
 
#82,746
Putthataway said:
We made one out of PVC pipe. Named it el hefe’ with it written on the tube. My friend drove home with it in a bag hanging from his mirror. Parked the car and his mom found it the next morning.😂🤣
Click to expand...
Holy shit dude... we once had a grey PVC bong. We were teenagers and stole all kinds of shit from construction sites in the area 🤣🤣

I remember getting high as fuck from it, but man did it taste like straight chemical fumes... 🦨🏭

Edit: we used these fuckers mostly to create bongs out of anything:
img-20250106-162257-500x500.jpeg

The easiest was to just burn two holes into a plastic Coke bottle and then use the aluminum heads (they usually came with little rubber rings). Again taste was nasty as fuck
 
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#82,747
NisterMice said:
Holy shit dude... we once had a grey PVC bong. We were teenagers and stole all kinds of shit from construction sites in the area 🤣🤣

I remember getting high as fuck from it, but man did it taste like straight chemical fumes... 🦨🏭

Edit: we used these fuckers mostly to create bongs out of anything:
img-20250106-162257-500x500.jpeg

The easiest was to just burn two holes into a plastic Coke bottle and then use the aluminum heads (they usually came with little rubber rings). Again taste was nasty as fuck
Click to expand...
No bro nothing ever like that . Hardware metal and not aluminum.
 
#82,749
this is our down under billy, called a springer, due to the spring valley glass juice bottle at the base, then a piece of tubing from bunnings (your lowes) and a down tube, either garden hose and foil or spiffy like this pic, a purpose made metal doohicky, oh the hoses we trimmed from random front yards, and we use a shotty here, a hole at the rear for the thumb, you guys seem to just yank the cone (bowl) out, I think?
PLUS, bucket bongs, cans, apples, shampoo, coke, and my fav, large mouth dare milk drink bottles, similar to gatorade styling.
IMG 1085
 
#82,753
Nyarlathotep said:
Only deseeders that I remember in the 70's-80's was us youngsters and a double album jacket... as in: "yo boy, come clean some these here damn seeds and earn yo keep!" 🤣✌️
Click to expand...
They looked like a small hamster wheel inside of this plastic box like thing and it had a crank on it , you broke your weed up and put it in there and started cranking. I couldn't find any pics on but that's basically what they were.
 
#82,755
Nyarlathotep said:
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.View attachment 2528254

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.”View attachment 2528256

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.View attachment 2528292View attachment 2528257

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.View attachment 2528305

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.View attachment 2528299

tbc 👊 🐙
Click to expand...
They hunted him by vehicle at first, then on foot. They hunted with dogs, with drones, with a helicopter that thudded over the canopy like a furious heart. Kivuli ran until the rush became pain and the pain became a kind of tunnel. Lights moved in the trees like ghosts practicing to be police.

At the river he stopped. The water slid by in black ribbons lit with coins of moon. He waded until it kissed his chest, then turned to face the shore.

The first ranger to step into the clearing was a woman with a scar from cheek to ear that made her look permanently unconvinced. She raised her hands. The men behind her made the disciplined buzzing sound of weapons not yet fired.

“Kivuli,” she said. She knew his name like all the old names. “Enough.”

He thought about it. He thought about wildebeest and waking to the sound of rain on acacia thorns. He thought about sleep, real sleep, the kind that gathered you up and set you down like a mother lion moving a cub. He thought about the first rush and the way it lied so well he forgave it for lying.

“Enough,” the ranger repeated, softer.

Kivuli stepped backward. The river tugged at his haunches. On the far bank, a line of eyes watched—monkeys, jackals, a stray hyena with the posture of an apology. He imagined crossing and wearing a different story. He imagined doing it now, in front of everyone.

A shot cracked. Not from the rangers. A cartel man, jumpy as a flea on a drum, couldn’t bear the moment one second longer.

The bullet split a sheet of river beside Kivuli’s shoulder. The jungle exhaled disaster. The night became a tunnel of running again—rangers shouting, campers sobbing, men in polo shirts insisting on refunds from reality. Kivuli slipped downstream, silent now, his heartbeat a single syllable: away.

By dawn he lay under thornscrub on a hill that could see everything. He watched the forest burn in patches where tires had gone where tires shouldn’t, watched the helipad glitter like a guilty plate, watched vultures write gossip on the air.

He slept at last. It was not the sleep he wanted, but it was sleep.

​
Weeks passed. Then months. The jungle, which wears stories lightly, draped Kivuli’s across itself like a ceremonial scarf and kept moving. The cartel men left for places with more concrete. The campers shifted to different lies. The rangers patched their holes and taught new cadets how to listen in green.

Kivuli wandered the edges: thinner, quieter, his mane beginning to look like a rumor that refused to be brushed. Sometimes he padded along a road and cars slowed because the world doesn’t see lions in the daylight often, not like this, not wandering alone like a question with paws. Sometimes he stopped at the bones of a campsite and sniffed old laughter, old mistakes.

Addiction, the elephants would have told him if elephants gave advice, is a bad god. It wants your mornings and your midnight's. It wants the story you could have had. It will clap when you kneel.

One evening, during a blue hour that seemed to last as long as a kind thought, Kivuli found a child sitting on a cooler, dangling her legs and reading a book with a flashlight. Her family’s tent glowed nearby. He stood at the edge of firelight and did his best impression of a boulder with opinions.

The girl looked up. They watched each other breathe.

“Are you the Line King?” she asked.

He blinked. A breeze turned the pages of her book like a friend.

She offered him a marshmallow on a stick. It was an absurd, perfect gift. He didn’t move. After a while, she set it on a flat rock and went inside.

Kivuli stayed until the coals yawned into black.

He did not eat the marshmallow.
5421bee0 c32a 48c4 8841 7e2b4c75d96a


​
You can still hear him, the old guides say, if you’re foolish enough to play music where the map is just a suggestion and the moon is a coin in a crooked bartender’s palm. You’ll hear a rustle that isn’t wind, a breath that isn’t yours. Hide your food, hide your foolishness, hide your little bags of terrible ideas.

Because some nights, when the air tastes like rain trying to happen, the jungle remembers the prince who traded his crown for lightning. It stretches, cracks its knuckles, and tells the story again.

They call him Kivuli. They call him the Line King.

They never say the joke out loud.
713be617 2d36 4300 8c40 d0a59a7933f8



The End Chapter One
tbc 👊🐙
 
#82,756
Nyarlathotep said:
They hunted him by vehicle at first, then on foot. They hunted with dogs, with drones, with a helicopter that thudded over the canopy like a furious heart. Kivuli ran until the rush became pain and the pain became a kind of tunnel. Lights moved in the trees like ghosts practicing to be police.

At the river he stopped. The water slid by in black ribbons lit with coins of moon. He waded until it kissed his chest, then turned to face the shore.

The first ranger to step into the clearing was a woman with a scar from cheek to ear that made her look permanently unconvinced. She raised her hands. The men behind her made the disciplined buzzing sound of weapons not yet fired.

“Kivuli,” she said. She knew his name like all the old names. “Enough.”

He thought about it. He thought about wildebeest and waking to the sound of rain on acacia thorns. He thought about sleep, real sleep, the kind that gathered you up and set you down like a mother lion moving a cub. He thought about the first rush and the way it lied so well he forgave it for lying.

“Enough,” the ranger repeated, softer.

Kivuli stepped backward. The river tugged at his haunches. On the far bank, a line of eyes watched—monkeys, jackals, a stray hyena with the posture of an apology. He imagined crossing and wearing a different story. He imagined doing it now, in front of everyone.

A shot cracked. Not from the rangers. A cartel man, jumpy as a flea on a drum, couldn’t bear the moment one second longer.

The bullet split a sheet of river beside Kivuli’s shoulder. The jungle exhaled disaster. The night became a tunnel of running again—rangers shouting, campers sobbing, men in polo shirts insisting on refunds from reality. Kivuli slipped downstream, silent now, his heartbeat a single syllable: away.

By dawn he lay under thornscrub on a hill that could see everything. He watched the forest burn in patches where tires had gone where tires shouldn’t, watched the helipad glitter like a guilty plate, watched vultures write gossip on the air.

He slept at last. It was not the sleep he wanted, but it was sleep.

​

Weeks passed. Then months. The jungle, which wears stories lightly, draped Kivuli’s across itself like a ceremonial scarf and kept moving. The cartel men left for places with more concrete. The campers shifted to different lies. The rangers patched their holes and taught new cadets how to listen in green.

Kivuli wandered the edges: thinner, quieter, his mane beginning to look like a rumor that refused to be brushed. Sometimes he padded along a road and cars slowed because the world doesn’t see lions in the daylight often, not like this, not wandering alone like a question with paws. Sometimes he stopped at the bones of a campsite and sniffed old laughter, old mistakes.

Addiction, the elephants would have told him if elephants gave advice, is a bad god. It wants your mornings and your midnight's. It wants the story you could have had. It will clap when you kneel.

One evening, during a blue hour that seemed to last as long as a kind thought, Kivuli found a child sitting on a cooler, dangling her legs and reading a book with a flashlight. Her family’s tent glowed nearby. He stood at the edge of firelight and did his best impression of a boulder with opinions.

The girl looked up. They watched each other breathe.

“Are you the Line King?” she asked.

He blinked. A breeze turned the pages of her book like a friend.

She offered him a marshmallow on a stick. It was an absurd, perfect gift. He didn’t move. After a while, she set it on a flat rock and went inside.

Kivuli stayed until the coals yawned into black.

He did not eat the marshmallow.
View attachment 2533005

​

You can still hear him, the old guides say, if you’re foolish enough to play music where the map is just a suggestion and the moon is a coin in a crooked bartender’s palm. You’ll hear a rustle that isn’t wind, a breath that isn’t yours. Hide your food, hide your foolishness, hide your little bags of terrible ideas.

Because some nights, when the air tastes like rain trying to happen, the jungle remembers the prince who traded his crown for lightning. It stretches, cracks its knuckles, and tells the story again.

They call him Kivuli. They call him the Line King.

They never say the joke out loud.
View attachment 2533007


The End Chapter One
tbc 👊🐙
Click to expand...
Been called the line king myself once or 10 times😂👍
 
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