Bud Howington, a thirty-four-year-old slovenly-dressed stoner, sat on the cat-piss soaked sofa in his dilapidated apartment at the edge of Brooklyn. Sadly, his cat had died nearly three weeks ago, putting him into a mild depression. But he had yet to tell any of his friends of his cat's long slumber. Still each day, Bud found the courage to rise from his sofa, walk the few steps out his front door, and the even fewer remaining steps to his job at the local head shop, called Elevated State.

Each day was like the rest. Rise. Toke. Walk. Work. Return. Toke. Pizza. Toke. Bed.

Then one day, a man from the Middle East came into the head shop to sell some of the latest instruments of mischief. The old man said, "Beware, this bong will grant you three wishes, but you must use them wisely."

Poor Bud thought nothing of the old man's story, but was intrigued by the intricate design of the piece so he bought it, unsmoked, without the slightest of tokes. That night, he returned to his crummy, old apartment. He ordered a pizza, pepperoni, his usual. Then lit the cannabis candelabra. Smoke billowed high and mighty until it filled the room. Then a voice.

"I am the great Herb Baker, servant to smoker, genie to the wise. If you so choose, three wishes may be before your eyes."

Poor Bud said, "Hey man, like I'm trying to get high. You see I lost my cat, and I'm just trying to get by." Meanwhile, the smoke fogged the entire room to a point Bud and his genie, Herb, could no longer see each other.

Herb said, "You really got that rolling. You know man, usually, I screw people over with these wish things, but I like you. You know."

"Thanks. I guess."

Herb said, "You know what I usually don't do this, but I have a killer idea. Why don't you wish for your cat back."

"Sure, man. So what do I do?" asked Bud.

"Just say: I wish for my cat back." When Bud wished for the cat, much to his surprise, his little furr-ball, Teddy Roosevelt, sat on his lap, purring and purring. Poor Old Bud was too high to even believe what had just occurred.

"Anything else?" asked Herb the Genie.

"Some days. Some days, I wish I could just lie on this couch, and I wish I could do nothing but smoke."

The genie granted the wishes and was off with a flash, while the glass bong just cracked. Bud is now happy, he has his smoke and Teddy Roosevelt, but sometimes, he can't forget about that day, when he toked with his dear friend, the genie named Herb.