Hookah Stories- The Sunflower Dynasty

Dr. Hookah sat against the amber statue, completely unaware of the large ancient hookah replica's value, focusing instead upon that most phosphorescent identity in front of him. And then, his mind began to melt and float away like the smoke flowing through the Hookah's pipes, into a pair of lungs and then being blown out into the fresh living air. The doctor had the sweetly painful thoughts of all the people he had helped and hurt entering his body through the portal of his eyes. He remembered the experience he once had when the mysterious woman, gripped his long hookah hose, and imbibed the thick shisha smoke with her pink lips in the frigid Moscow winter. He sat, bewildered at the idea that he could...

"I just bet you wish you could smoke it right now, you fag," said Walter, the idiot son of.... sheesh ah... the local tobacconist and hookah vender, H.T. Farkem. Cymbal just kicked and kicked until both his face and the face of his recently selected victim splattered with blood like when it splatted when he came out of his mother's vagina. Because our minds are not formed during that primal experience the victims goal of true self expression through the art of blowing smoke rings was kybashed by the trauma of the curbing blow by Cymbal the hookah lover. He sat in divine contemplation as the sound of the ambulances rang loud and approached swiftly to the crime scene of hookah bar debauchery and sex offenders anonymous.
He wondered,
the ambulance driver wondered while smoking a shisha laced cigarette... How could a man of so many important offices about town, produce such a terrible progeny. "Absolutely disgusting, a true offense to our town. Don't you agree, Sir?" He looked behind him to see where this voice came from. A man with smoky white hair and a face wrinkled like a molasases cured tobacoo leaf was sitting in the seat next to him. The commotion outside sat in stark contrast to the stillness inside of his brain.

he wandered to the garret accross the river to pay his hookah bill with dill on a fresh shisha bagel from the hookah smith. After he crossed the dam, he stopped at the taylor to pick up his newly curled pantalones. He walked and walked, he was a paul walker.
He was a pall walker. Walking the dead, endlessly after their Journey Through Styx
hahaha
And then, he
the ambulance driver laughed,
slight bits of shisha esque material,
bilious matter screaming,
pouring from his lungs,
like smoke from a hookah's resevoir,
Each cough racked his brain like a powerful nuclear blast sending him on a journey from life to death and back again. Smoke is the ultimate irony. The burning of