XenoKnowsALL

Born with nothing but hunger and hurt, a 40-year-old soul is reborn in the body of a homeless Brooklyn stoner—and gifted with the divine ability to grow perfect cannabis in seven days. But instead of chasing hype, he builds a sacred legacy from the dirt: weed with intention, healing with fire, and culture with care.

Alongside Maya, a visionary artist, they transform their struggle into a global movement—From the Dirt—expanding across dispensaries, fashion, food, education, and spiritual growth.

From rooftops to rituals, from corner stores to cathedrals, this is a story of grief, glory, grind, and grace.

Because some things aren’t grown.
They’re remembered.

From the Dirt: Bloom Anyway

The next few days were a blur of rolled-up dollar bills, knockoff lighters, and whispers floating down Church Ave like smoke in the summer heat.

"Yo, that new bud from the bridge?""Bro, that Second Chance hits like therapy.""Where he gettin' that from? No plug got weed like that."

Marcus—no, Darius—kept his head low. Same hoodie. Same busted backpack. But each night, after the streets quieted and the bodegas locked up, he'd creep into the abandoned lot behind a wrecked dollar store and tend to his miracle garden. The plants didn't just grow—they thrived. Fat, frosty buds swayed in the breeze like they were dancing to music only they could hear.

He named his first strain Second Chance. Fitting.

But he knew better than to get comfortable.

One afternoon, while weighing out grams with a rusted kitchen scale, a shadow fell across the milk crate he sat on.

Darius looked up, half-expecting some junkie or a cop.

Instead, it was a tall dude, early 30s, wearing a puffy North Face and Timbs worn down at the heel. His face was weathered but sharp, and he had that look—half predator, half survivor.

"Name's Tone," the man said, nodding. "OG round here. Heard you got gas."

Darius studied him. "Heard wrong. I got greatness."

Tone cracked a grin. "Confident. Dangerous thing for a kid with nothin'. You grow it?"

Darius didn't answer. Just handed him a pre-roll. Tone took a drag, held it... exhaled slow.

He sat down on an overturned paint bucket. "I ain't never tasted weed like this. You growing out here?"

Tone didn't answer immediately. He finished the joint, nodded to himself, then leaned forward.

"You ain't gon' last long out here alone, D. Not with product like that. Someone's gonna try and take it. I can keep them off you... but I want in. Real partnership."

Darius paused, eyes narrowing. "How I know you won't snake me?"

Tone grinned. "'Cause if I was gonna rob you, I would've done it before you even blinked."

That night, Darius sat by the plants, a blunt hanging from his lips as he watched the moonlight hit the trichomes like diamonds.

He didn't know if he could trust Tone.

Didn't know what tomorrow would bring.

By the end of the week, the Second Chance strain was moving through barbershops, sneaker stores, and the back of every halal cart in Flatbush. Tone handled protection and distribution. Darius kept the grow quiet.

They weren't just selling weed anymore.

They were building a movement.

Chapter Two – Gas from the Gutter