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"Ever think about how cows are basically just big, slow dogs with weird nipples?" Konny asked, rolling the blunt between their fingers like a seasoned pro.
Mayella blinked. The question hit her with the same force as a drunk uncle at a family reunion; unexpected, vaguely unsettling, and impossible to ignore. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally managed, "What the hell kinda thing is that to ask somebody?" Her nose wrinkled as Konny licked the paper, sealing the blunt with the precision of someone who'd done this roughly ten thousand times before.
Konny grinned, their teeth flashing in the dim light of Mayella's shitty porch. "Philosophy, babe. Deep shit. Like, do cows know they're cows? Or do they just think they're really bad at being horses?" They flicked the lighter, the flame casting shadows that made their face look eerily delighted. The sweet, skunky smell of weed curled into the air, thick enough to taste.
Mayella watched as Konny inhaled, holding it in like they were trying to win some imaginary competition. Then exhaled smoothly, the smoke twisting into lazy spirals. "See?" they said, passing the blunt. "Easy. Like breathing, but better."
Mayella hesitated, her fingers twitching like she was handling stolen goods instead of rolled up plant matter. "Ain't… Ain’t this illegal?" she whispered, glancing over her shoulder like Sheriff Tate might materialize from the peeling paint of the porch railing.
Konny snorted, nearly inhaling their own smoke wrong. "Girl, everything fun is illegal. Breathing's still legal, but give 'em time." They nudged the blunt toward her again, their grin widening as Mayella's resolve visibly crumbled. The law had never stopped her pa from drinking himself into a stupor, why should it stop her from this?
Mayella took the blunt like it might bite, her fingers pinching the end with all the grace of a toddler handling scissors. She inhaled sharply, too sharply and immediately doubled over, hacking like a cat with a hairball. Tears sprang to her eyes as her lungs staged a full-blown mutiny. The coughs racked her body, violent enough to shake the porch swing they were sitting on.
Konny watched, torn between concern and the kind of amusement that only a stoned person could muster. They reached out, shaking Mayella by the shoulders like she was a malfunctioning vending machine. "NO MAYELLA, HOLDING IT IN DOESN’T DO ANYTHING!" they yelled, their voice pitching higher with each word. Mayella wheezed, snot bubbling dangerously at her nostrils, and Konny couldn’t help but cackle. "Oh my god, you’re so bad at this."
The world had started doing this weird sideways tilt, like the porch was a carnival ride Mayella hadn’t consented to. Between hacking coughs, she saw Konny morph into a blurry, grinning gremlin one who was currently patting her back with the enthusiasm of someone trying to dislodge a particularly stubborn ketchup packet. "There we go," Konny cooed, voice dripping with false reassurance. "Just… Y’know, keep breathing. That’s kinda important." Mayella shot them a look that could wilt crops.
Konny, blissfully oblivious (or maybe just too high to care), took another drag off the blunt and exhaled with the gravitas of a philosopher discovering the meaning of life. Which, given their current train of thought, might’ve been something like, "Dude… what if toes are just tiny hands?" They stared at their own feet like they’d never seen them before. "Mayella… Mayella… Do you think toes get jealous of fingers? Like… Fingers get all the cool jobs, y’know? Meanwhile toes are just… down there. In socks. Doing nothing."
Mayella, however, was currently in the middle of a spiritual crisis. The wooden planks of the porch had started breathing subtle at first, just a gentle rise and fall beneath her feet, but now they were full on undulating, like a sea of sentient lumber. She clutched the swing’s armrest like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic, her knuckles bleaching white. Konny’s voice had taken on a weird, underwater quality, their words stretching like taffy before dissolving into meaningless noise. "I—I think the porch is melting.” Mayella whispered, her voice hoarse from coughing. She jabbed a shaky finger at the floorboards, which were now (in her mind) bubbling like lava. "Konny. Konny. Why IS IT DOING THAT?”
Konny squinted at the perfectly stationary porch, then back at Mayella, whose pupils had dilated to the size of dinner plates. "Ohhhh, you’re tripping tripping," they mused, tapping the blunt against their chin. "Okay, okay, deep breaths. It’s just wood. It’s always been wood. Unless…" They paused dramatically. "Unless it wasn’t." Mayella let out a strangled noise that was half gasp, half sob.
Konny, sensing the rapidly deteriorating situation, quickly backtracked. "No! No, I’m kidding! It’s wood! Definitely wood. See?" They stomped on the porch for emphasis, producing a dull thud. Mayella flinched like they’d just kicked a puppy.
Meanwhile, Konny’s brain had latched onto a new, equally pressing concern: their own fingers. They wiggled them experimentally, fascinated by the way the joints moved. "Dude," they whispered reverently, "we’re just… meat puppets."
Mayella, who was currently convinced her own skeleton was trying to escape through her skin, did not find this revelation comforting. She whimpered, pressing her forehead against the cool metal of the porch swing’s chain. It felt like the only solid thing in a world that had turned to gelatin.
Then, like the world’s worst drumroll, the sound of stumbling footsteps and incoherent muttering cut through the haze. The screen door flew open with a bang, revealing Bob Ewell swaying in the doorway like a scarecrow caught in a tornado. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, bounced between Konny and Mayella, lingering on the blunt still clutched between Konny’s fingers. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, like a fish trying to remember how to breathe air.
Konny didn’t wait for the inevitable drunken tirade. In one fluid motion, they snatched Mayella’s wrist and yanked her off the swing, her limbs flailing like a marionette with its strings cut. "RUN," they hissed, already dragging her down the porch steps. Mayella’s legs moved on autopilot, her bare feet slapping against the dirt as they tore across the yard. Behind them, Bob’s slurred roar “GODDAMN HEATHENS!" chased them like a poorly aimed shotgun blast.
The night air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and panic as Konny veered left, cutting through the Radley’s overgrown yard like they’d done this a hundred times before. Mayella’s breath came in ragged gasps, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her toes (which, according to Konny’s earlier revelation, were probably very jealous of her fingers right now). "Where… Where we goin’?” she wheezed, nearly tripping over a rogue garden gnome.
"Finch residence, baybee," Konny sang, skidding to a stop behind the oak tree in the Finch’s backyard. They peered around the trunk, their grin widening when they spotted the soft glow of Atticus’s study lamp still burning. "Bingo. Lawyer man’s awake." Mayella made a noise like a stepped on frog. The last thing her fried brain could process was logic, let alone the concept of facing Maycomb’s most composed adult while high out of her gourd.
Atticus looked up from his paperwork just as Konny shoulder checked the screen door open, dragging a wild eyed Mayella behind them like a particularly disheveled stray. His glasses slid down his nose as he took in the scene: Konny’s dilated pupils, Mayella’s death grip on their sleeve, and the unmistakable herbal funk clinging to both of them. "Evening," he said, slow as molasses, like he was mentally translating the situation from a language he didn’t speak. "Is there a… reason Mayella Ewell appears to be communing with the ceiling?" Mayella whimpered, staring at the light fixture like it had just whispered the secrets of the universe to her.
Konny, ever the picture of nonchalance, flopped onto the sofa and kicked their feet up on Atticus’s meticulously organized tax documents. "She’s just vibing," they said, waving a hand like they were swatting away a fly instead of dismissing the entire concept of sobriety. Atticus blinked. The clock on the wall ticked three times before he carefully set down his pen, folded his hands, and said, voice drier than a Sunday sermon, "Konny. Did you drug Mayella Ewell."
Konny gasped, or at least attempted to, but it devolved into a snort-laugh halfway through. "Drug is such a strong word," they wheezed, wiping their eyes. "I shared a lil’ jazz cabbage with her, and then this dumbass…” they jabbed a thumb at Mayella, who was currently tracing the pattern of the wallpaper with rapt fascination, "took a hit like she was trying to win a pissing contest with a damn dragon."
Mayella, sensing she was being insulted, turned her head so slowly it was like her neck joints had rusted. "M’not a dumbass,” she slurred, her tongue heavy in her mouth. "M’a… a visionary." Then she promptly face planted into the armrest, murmuring something about the existential despair of armadillos.
Konny, meanwhile, had moved onto a more pressing mission: the Finch family refrigerator. The sudden realization that they were starving hit them like a freight train. "Ohhhh shit," they whispered, vaulting over the back of the sofa with the grace of a drunk gazelle. They skidded into the kitchen, their feet sliding on the linoleum, and wrenched the fridge open with the fervor of a treasure hunter cracking open a long lost tomb. The fluorescent light bathed their face in an eerie glow as they stared into the abyss of Tupperware and condiments. "Atticus," they gasped, voice trembling with reverence, "we got pickles."
Atticus, who had been mid-sip of his coffee, paused. The mug hovered inches from his lips as he processed this development. "...Yes," he said, as if confirming the existence of gravity.
Konny didn't wait for further permission. They plunged their entire hand into the jar, emerging with a fistful of dill spears dripping brine onto the floor. "Ohhhh fuck," they moaned, shoving three into their mouth at once, crunching with the fervor of a man who'd just discovered food for the first time. The acidic tang exploded across their tongue, their eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "This is god,” they announced through a mouthful of pickles, juice dribbling down their chin. "Atticus. Atticus. I would die for these pickles."
Atticus sighed, the long, slow exhale of a man who’d accepted that his evening had derailed into absurdity. He set his coffee down carefully, then stood, the creak of his chair punctuating the silence like a judge’s gavel.
Mayella, still sprawled across the armchair, let out a soft snore. One arm dangled limply off the edge, her fingers twitching occasionally as if she were typing out her dreams.
Konny, meanwhile, had transitioned from pickle worship to an impromptu interpretive dance celebrating the glory of sodium. They shimmied sideways, their feet sliding across the linoleum, arms raised in triumph, until their stomach gave an ominous gurgle. Their eyes widened. A beat passed. Then, with the solemn inevitability of a thunderclap, Konny ripped a fart so loud it echoed off the Finch’s china cabinet.
The sound was catastrophic, a bassy, wet blast that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. Atticus’s coffee mug froze midway to his lips, his expression morphing from weary resignation to abject horror. Even Mayella stirred, her drug addled brain registering the seismic event with a muffled, “Sweet Jesus…”
Konny, however, was already collapsing onto the couch in a fit of hysterics, their body convulsing with laughter so violent it threatened to shake them apart. Tears streamed down their face as they clutched their stomach, gasping for air between wheezes. “Oh my god,” they howled, kicking their legs like an overturned beetle, “did y’all hear that?!” Their voice cracked on the last word, dissolving into another round of snorts. Then, with the abruptness of a flipped switch, their laughter cut off mid chortle. Their limbs went slack, their head lolled back against the cushions, and they were out cold mouth still slightly open, one pickle green drool trail already in progress.
Atticus stood frozen in place, his expression hovering somewhere between disbelief and existential resignation. His fingers twitched around his coffee mug once, twice, before he set it down with deliberate care, as if handling a live grenade. He blinked slowly, taking in the scene: Konny’s pickle juice handprint smeared across his fridge, Mayella’s foot twitching in time with some hallucinatory rhythm, and the lingering stench of Konny’s gaseous masterpiece still curling through the air like a malevolent ghost.
His lips moved silently for a moment, forming words that never quite made it past his teeth. Then, very quietly, he whispered, “Lord, give me strength.” The ceiling fan above him creaked in sympathy.