Honestly, the idea of actually finding his phone and [i]calling[/i] his dealer seemed like such a hassle that Devon ended up heading back to the bowl he left on the floor. The television continued to blare, the report on the parking lot fire long since over. It was all just noise he couldn't turn off now. Sitting on the carpet in front of a chair, bowl in hand, the presence of the smoke was much more noticeable. He tried waving it out of his eyes but all it did was come back moments later. It clouded around his head mostly but there was a lot of it still lingering around his torso and arms. At least it didn't smell or make his eyes hurt.

Taking a blow from the pipe, Devon closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair. Head tipped back, his neck rested against the fuzzy edge of the seat. He wasn't high, not that he knew what that really meant, but it was a numb feeling in his head. Interesting recreational activity he supposed. The unique skunk odor he still wasn't fond of was back again, possibly the one thing he disliked about taking weed. The smell tickled his nose and he brought up a hand to swipe at it. Instead of warm flesh, all he got was a face full of smoke.

Snapping his eyes open, he stared at his arm. The fact that the tips of his fingers and his wrist was turning into smoke was obvious in his short sleeved shirt. Waving his arm frantically in front of his face, Devon gaped in horror. The smoke was just swishing around the air but his hand was turning into smoke. What was in that weed?! Fumbling for his phone, Devon got the slip of paper out with his dealer's number. His phone wasn't in his pants. He spotted it sitting on the table an arm's reach away and tried grabbing at it with his arm. It passed through the wood. [i]What the fuck, what the fuck,[/i] he chanted to himself. Using his other arm, he hurriedly dialed the number.

He yelled into it, “What did you do to that weed?! My arm's turning into smoke!” Devon flailed his arm around as if it would do any good.