The Influencer Apocalypse: Washed-Up Weed Stars Convert a Dead Mall Into a Trap House, Get Raided Like It’s 2008

SEATTLE, WA — In a bold experiment in professional delusion and THC-induced dementia, a cast of washed-up cannabis influencers—led by the ghost of Jonah Tacoma’s Instagram relevance and Jared Mirsky’s branding ego—have attempted to reboot their public image by turning a bankrupt mall into a full-scale influencer commune. Or, as one local described it, “a trap house disguised as a TED Talk.”

The effort was part Burning Man, part Big Brother, and entirely fucking illegal. The plan? Rent a shuttered strip mall off I-5, cram it with ring lights, dab rigs, and forgotten clout tokens, and pretend it’s still 2016.

It didn’t go well.

The Dab Dome: A Rotting Monument to Mid-Tier Cannabis Clout

The operation was unofficially dubbed The Dab Dome—though several former sponsors referred to it simply as “the liability.” Co-founded and orchestrated by Jonah Tacoma (yes, that Jonah Tacoma, of Dabstars infamy) and Jared Mirsky (the cannabis branding bro with 80 different logos and one actual client), the dome was marketed as an “immersive cannabis culture space.” In reality, it looked and smelled more like a hotboxed Claire’s store if Claire’s sold knockoff Puffcos and spoiled hemp milk.

Tacoma, still clinging to the last 12,000 followers who haven’t noticed he switched careers to NFT shilling and Delta-8 consulting, joined forces with Mirsky, who promised “brand-forward vision alignment” but mostly wandered the halls wearing a scarf and mumbling about color palettes.

Together, they summoned a cast of fellow relevance refugees, including:

• Kitty Kitty Bang Bang, the former GanjaGlam pin-up girl turned vegan edible guru, hawking unlicensed “hemp truffles” made of mashed up seeds and regret.

• DabMami420, a Twitch streamer turned “conscious cannabis coach,” who reportedly hasn’t paid taxes since Prop 64 passed.

• Chris Crayzie, who arrived two weeks late and reportedly spent most of his time doing Instagram Lives from a busted hoverboard while mumbling about “energy frequency branding.”

• The 420 Nurses, a collective of women still cosplaying as booth models from a 2013 High Times Cup, now repackaged as “community educators” who charge $300 to repost your preroll.

• Bess Byers, who showed up with a drone, a yoga mat, and an emotional support dog named “Liberty,” then got into a heated argument over who would get admin rights to the communal Telegram chat.

• A former Dope Magazine intern turned self-proclaimed “terpene sommelier,” whose main contribution to the Dome was a 12-minute TED Talk on how BHO is “just misunderstood.”Where’s the Experience, Mike?

  
  

“Live-Work-Smoke” Model or Just Squatting With WiFi?

What was pitched as a “live-work community for the next generation of cannabis entrepreneurs” quickly devolved into a weed-scented Coachella for the unemployed. Former kiosks were converted into bunkbeds, food courts became dab bars, and a former JCPenney was rebranded as “The Content Cathedral,” featuring a ring light altar and a "sacred sesh zone" made entirely out of reclaimed trap tables.

A leaked investor deck drafted by Mirsky read:

“We’re not just curating a space. We’re amplifying lifestyle identities through brand resonance and authentic dab culture.”

In reality, the HVAC system failed week two, the toilets backed up from excessive vegan fiber, and at least one unit was quietly sold to a guy named “Chaz” who used it to run a pop-up Delta-9 lab “for content purposes.”

Artisanal BHO: Now With 70% Risk of Facial Burns

One of the Dome’s core “products” was its allegedly artisanal BHO—produced in what used to be a Claire’s piercing studio, now housing three rusty cans of butane and a vape that exploded in February. According to a confidential LCB source, the process involved:

• Using reclaimed wax scraped from old bangers

• “Flash purging” it with a heat gun

• And instructing users to pre-burn the dab in order to “access the true terpene signature”

  
  

This technique, nicknamed “Phoenix Mode,” resulted in at least six hospital visits and one man temporarily losing the ability to pronounce the word “sativa.”

Smoothie Bar or Felony Front?

Perhaps the crown jewel of the Dome’s commerce was the “hemp wellness bar,” a converted Sbarro offering $18 smoothies infused with “full-spectrum cannabinoids” sourced from a hemp farm that, according to public records, does not exist.

Employees—none of whom were paid, according to anonymous whistleblowers—were required to wear uniforms branded Influence Is Medicine and sign NDAs longer than a Trulieve shareholder call.

One smoothie, the “Terp Tonic,” claimed to contain 40mg of “nano-CBG.” It was later revealed to be orange juice and chia seeds.

The Raid: When the LCB Kicks In Your Dome

The Washington State Liquor and Cannabis Board showed up in full force last Tuesday after multiple reports of:

• Unlicensed BHO extraction

• Illegal retail cannabis sales

• And what one officer described as “the worst smoothie I’ve ever tasted”

  
  

Witnesses say the scene resembled a crossover episode of COPS and Viceland as regulators stormed the “Content Cathedral” mid-livestream. One influencer tried to evade arrest by crawling into a ring light box and whispering, “I’m not here for commerce, I’m here for connection.”

Dozens were fined. Equipment was confiscated. Jonah Tacoma allegedly tried to flee by skateboard but fell into a mall fountain and was apprehended while shouting, “You can’t arrest culture!” Mirsky, meanwhile, was reportedly found in a candle-lit backroom reciting branding mantras into a mirror and was calmly escorted out with a cease and desist stapled to his mood board.

Post-Raid: Reels, Denials, and a GoFundMe

Following the raid, the influencers quickly pivoted back to what they do best: denial and GoFundMe pages. Tacoma released a 14-minute video titled Free the Plant, Free the People, Free Me, claiming the LCB was “intimidated by innovation” and promising a “resurgence tour.”

Kitty Kitty Bang Bang posted a reel of herself crying in front of the demolished smoothie bar with the caption:

“You can shut down our mall, but you can’t evict the plant medicine in our hearts.”

Chris Crayzie went live from an undisclosed RV, vaping in front of a green screen that looped “Free Palestine / Free the Zaza” graphics while he declared, “They’re trying to erase legacy voices, fam.”

Jared Mirsky, never one to miss a branding opportunity—or an unhinged geography lesson—responded with a sequel to his infamous "Google Maps Grow Bust" video from 2021, in which he scrolled through satellite images of Humboldt County and accused greenhouses of "destroying the visual integrity of brand-forward cannabis." This time, in Unmasking Prohibition 2.0, he zoomed in even slower, added thunder sound effects, and warned of “a shadow economy threatening licensed creativity.” The caption read:

“They raid us for culture crimes, but won’t raid the hills? Curious.”

Sources close to Mirsky say he's already workshopping a third installment that includes heatmap overlays, AI-enhanced metadata, and a limited-edition infographic tee.

Meanwhile, one Dome resident who asked not to be named said:

“I came here because they promised clout and free dabs. All I got was food poisoning and a misdemeanor.”

The Sad End of the Clout Era

In many ways, The Dab Dome marks the death throes of the cannabis influencer era—a final, wheezing cough from the generation that thought a ring light and a raw cone made them entrepreneurs. What began as advocacy turned into marketing, which devolved into TikTok thirst traps and $60 “zaza pouches” sold out of a vape shop trunk.

The trap-mall fiasco stands as a monument to a time when weed wasn’t about quality, legality, or ethics—but about who could yell “FIRE” the loudest into an iPhone 6.

Rest in PAX.

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