The sound of a bong hit, like a gargling trumpet blown in the face of God, heralds his arrival.
A Reinhardt perhaps, or a Maokai who uses the word “tree” as frequently as possible; a force of nature as ancient and primal as one of those Paladins characters I forget the name of. Though he wears many faces, he shares the same heart, pumping blood of iron and THC. Blood that needs to tell you exactly how high he is, unprompted, immediately at the start of the game.
You have seen him: a name, above a beefy head and beefier health bar. WeedWizardXXX. ImMakinBakinMan. xxxBONGhittttzzzzz. MyDadBeatsMeEveryDay. PinkFloydenstein. Whatever form he takes, his purpose is the same: he needs you to know how high he is, more than he needs to eat, to breathe. To tell you, “Oh, are we not supposed to pull that group? I’m fuckin’ baked.”
But you muted him. You left him to rot in a sunless prison. Can you hear him calling to you? Can you see him, desperately trying to hit a bong that is no longer there? Can you—well, you can definitely smell him, it’s like a fucking Led Zeppelin concert over there.
Maybe he’s got something to say; a cry for help, a word of advice, a review of the pizza he’s eating… who are you to silence him? You tried weed once in college. Who are you to judge this man?
Reach out your hand. Let him scream, “Sorry, I know it’s ranked, lol,” to the heavens. “Last game before bed, I promise,” cries an angel on wings of white smoke and red eyes, who wants nothing more than to get baked and tank damage, taking hits in more ways than one. It’s 4 AM. Hear his glory sing from the highest:
“I’m so fucking high, bro.”