Hashish was a Tinkerer.
That's what we called them. Tinkerers. Loathed by the good bible fearing folks of the town's crowded streets, they hid themselves in Mommy's basement and other dark unnoticed virtual corners.
They aren't Normal. For one, they stay awake after sunset, sometimes All Night. That's how most of them are caught anyway.
Though, they have it fairly easy in this country. East of here, Tinkerers are publicly quartered every weekend. "For Sport". At a time when the biggest religions are publicly traded in stock markets, it ain't wise to anger the Mobs of Belief.
If my father had his way, they'd all be locked up and exposed to small doses of Alpha-radiation. Not enough to kill, just enough to grotesquely mutate - he thought the irony was perfect: they'd finally resemble their damned creations in the end.