You're walking alone at night. You feel a haunting stare from a pair of eyes. Footsteps behind you are quickly edging closer. The would-be assailant is nearly upon you!
"Not today, mother fucker," you whisper to yourself behind a half grin before opening your little brown box of Kàkaw. Out from its cardboard depths arises an eardrum-piercing crow shriek! It rattles your enemy, causing them to urinate their trousers and flee in terror.
But they haven't learned their lesson...not yet. You open the box once more; the retreating hoodlum defecates their pee-soaked pants. A wet turd drips down their pant leg and onto the asphalt.
"You didn't have to do that; I was already running away!" they scream at you.
It's true—you didn't have to do that. But fuck 'em. They're going to have a field day with laundry later, and you are going to enjoy, like, some cannabis-infused chocolate-covered caramels, or something, safe and sound at home. Yeah, that sounds nice.
Kàkaw is sold in the section of the weed store where a generous-but-misguided budtender is rolling joints with lotto tickets.