The Mummy Reefer; AKA Pharaoh Tokedonpot

When a 'Crasher needs a couch to fall down on, a fistful of Vicodin and a mouthful of warm Wild Turkey to wash it down with, a home-cooked meal of warm Ragu sauce on stone-bought noodles, a bathtub to keep a clump of weird hair and eyes that keeps singing in your mother's voice, or a well-worn book on 17th-century religious art full of notes by an old occultist from the '50s, that 'Crasher need look no further than the world's chillingest and most enlightened Trustafarian, the Mummy Reefer, real name, like, Wayne-O or something.

He's the damn den mother of the Austin-based 'Crasher community, and he's done everything from score a new hat and coat and some gloves for a 'Crasher on the lam from the law, to talk a guy down from Nether-Toxin-spawned religious visions, to help surgically remove a chunk of clicking radiator-part from a knee-cap. No one yet has died on his watch, and he'll loan a guy $500 without even thinking about it. He's a nice guy and a good friend and he's very much an innocent in a world full of very dangerous people. One of these days, the smiling Pharaoh Tokedonpot is going to open his door to the wrong guy or say the wrong thing to the wrong crazy asshole, and he is going to die … but until then, he's got sunshine in a bag and he's willing to share with his bros, dude.

The saddest thing is probably that the Mummy Reefer is a really smart guy. He knows a lot about politics, a lot about history, and a fairly good amount about mathematics and philosophy and chemistry and even pretty basic medicine, including how to treat gunshot wounds. He's a fucking amazing artist, too, and has his whole place decked out in this Egyptian motif with a Jamaican sort of flair; if he wasn't high all the time, he could probably do something with it. And he speaks a couple of languages really well: he picked up Spanish and French easily enough, which means he can get by in Italian and can translate Latin, and he knows good German 'cause he spent a summer there. And if he doesn't read it, like Greek, he can at least tell you what it is, probably. And actually, yeah, he can fix cars, too. Or loan you his. For all his charm and smarts, he could probably manage a Fortune 500 company, like his dad …. and he would definitely be a whole hell of a lot safer just hanging out with crack-heads, or putting his trust in violent felons with PTSD and guns. But the thing is, his old hombre Jimbo was a 'Crasher back before he got institutionalized or whatever, and the Pharaoh believes that everybody needs a friend. A friend like him, man.

He lives in an apartment uptown a big as some houses, all secretly paid for by his mom. If you don't mind people coming and going at all hours of the night or getting maybe some stains on your clothes, it's better than any hotel in the city. Show up to his place with a bag of Cheetoes and a smile, and you'll have a friend for life. Hell yes, you can crash here for a month. And if you come dragging in at 3 AM with a fresh Undamned who keeps screaming, well, the Pharaoh can hook a dude up with some fine cheeba-cheeba mellow and a room to kind of cool it down in, man.

And don't worry. He's not gonna call the cops, duder.

So bring him your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to smoke weed, the wretched refuse of your teeming score. Send them, the homeless, tempest-tossed to he, for the Pharaoh lifts high his lighter beside the golden bong.

Man, it's going to be a shame when this poor kid gets killed.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License