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Big Bank

“Pookie, you’re fucking violating right now,” my apartment’s drug dealer says close to

eighteen hours before he’ll drop off our last major pick-up of the summer. “I’m fucking starving out here. You’re not going to help me eat? I’ve been selling since you were in fuckin’ diapers b, and now you not finna let me sell to some fucking yuppies in Manhattan who wouldn’t know cut coke if it literally cut them in the face?”

“You’re too hot right now, Snipe,” Pookie says. “Things have changed since you’ve been locked up. I’ve built something really good here. If I put you in a compromising position, I risk fucking everything up and I’m sorry, but you’re just not worth that.”

“You really think your shit don’t stink — ungrateful ass,” Snipe says. “Like I wasn’t putting Jordan’s on your feet and Polo in your closet when the OGs didn’t think a girl could push weight?”

“Exactly — USED to. Man, nobody even wears Polo anymore,” Pookie says.

Pookie is the CEO and overseer of a popular drug delivery service, Magic Hour, that caters to the recreational drug needs of students, teachers, Wall Street analysts, music industry interns, computer scientists, and everybody else in between. It’s a pretty seamless operation — a preexisting member from the Magic Hour’s customer directory will refer their friend to Pookie who will either accept or deny the prospect’s entry into the service. Most times, the prospect is granted admission right away and are immediately able to spend their hard-earned money on various controlled substances. Magic Hour customers have the ability to buy almost any type of depressants, hallucinogens, opiates, or stimulants.

Magic Hour sends out a daily menu and hours of operation to its directory. From there, customers text the Magic Hour number, which is connected to a burner pay-as-you-go phone, and tell the service what vices they’re looking for. Pookie receives this text, and then texts a private WhatsApp group full of dealers the order and address in which a delivery needs to be made. From there, a dealer will claim the delivery, travel to the destination with a locked briefcase full of drugs, and make the drugs for cash exchange.

Magic Hour dealers get to keep 40% of all profits that they bring to Pookie. It’s not uncommon for busy full-time dealers to bring in $2000 dollars a week. For many of the privileged white-collar workers that summon these dealers to their Manhattan and Brooklyn apartments, they are completely unaware that these dealers are sometimes making significantly more money than them. Pookie’s network of drug dealers include store associates, waiters and waitresses, strippers, and your regular good old-fashioned corner boys. Suffice to say, Pookie is the overseer of a fresh, popular New York City based start-up company worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. She’s what happens when Griselda Blanco meets the digital revolution.

“Look,” Pookie says, trying to appease her restless friend. “You’re too hot to handle anything crazy, but I can give you a few ounces of weed to push while you keep your profile down.”

“I appreciate that Pook,” Snipe says. “But a nigga gotta pay his phone bill, he gotta get some new clothes, he gotta pay rent, he gotta take care of his family you heard? I need more than just flipping weed. Let me hold onto something heavier.”

“Alright, how about this?” Pookie says. “You’re going to start with the weed. But, you can prove your worth by going to collect from some of my dealers. I got one of my main coke guys at the Washington Houses in East Harlem, and a stripper working down at Lady’s. Can you handle that?”

“You already,” Snipe says.

“Alright,” Pookie says. “The nigga dealing coke should have $5,000, make sure it’s all there and don’t let him try to short you because you’re new. The stripper should have about $1,500 for you, but just take whatever she gives you — she’ll make it back to us sooner or later. It’s the nigga up in East Harlem you gotta be careful with. Sound good?”

“Word,” Snipe says. “I need all the shits though after this, you heard? All the shits! I’m tryna get like you, sis.”

“Bet,” Pookie says. “I’ll call you an Uber to take you uptown now. I’ll text him now so he’s expecting you. Come back with all of the cash sometime tomorrow night. Cool?”

“One!,” Snipe says giving his friend a fist bump.

Snipe leaves Pookie’s $4000/month one-bedroom apartment and jumps in the Chrysler 300 waiting for him outside. The driver tells him he can help himself to the mints and water in the back, Snipe says thank you. It’s about a twenty-minute drive to his destination, so Snipe checks his backpack to make sure that he has his affairs in order. In his bag he has everything he needs — his keys, a change of clothes, a small, locked briefcase full of eights of weed, and his six- inch blade. Snipe takes the blade out of his bag and quickly puts it in his pocket. He asks the driver if he has Bluetooth, and promptly plays “Half Manne Half Cocaine” once he gets an affirmative answer.

Snipe texts Pookie and lets her know that he’s arrived and is standing outside the project building. There are a few men standing outside the building entry. Snipe and the men exchange mean mugs, but both parties deem there’s no reason for escalation. The dealer walks outside and daps up the men standing outside.

“You Pookie’s boy?” the dealer asks.
“Yeah,” Snipe says.
“Bet,” the dealer says. “Let’s go.”
“Yo Ethan,” one of the men outside the building says. “You good, blood?” “Yeah I’m straight nigga,” the dealer says.

Ethan, the dealer, leads Snipe inside the public housing unit and they take the steps up to his apartment because the elevator is out of service. Ethan walks ahead of Snipe up the poorly lit staircase. Snipe clutches the handle of the blade in his pocket — he’s both orchestrated and been victim to his fair share of setups across his years.

Eventually, Ethan and Snipe make their way up to the 7th floor and into Ethan’s apartment. The apartment is empty besides Ethan and Snipe. An old Max B mixtape plays from a Sonos speaker in the corner of the living room.

“Aye, you tryna smoke bro?” Ethan asks Snipe. “I’m finna spark somethin’ real quick.” “Nah, I’m cool b,” Snipe says. “I gotta work later tonight and shit.”
“Nigga, fuck that,” Ethan says as he crumbles weed into a “Sweet Aromatic” Backwood.

“Ain’t shit that should stop you from getting high when you want.” “I’m cool,” Snipe says.

“More for me,” Ethan says as he pearls the blunt and sparks it.

“Look my nigga — I got shit to do,” says Snipe. “Pookie sent me to pick up the money. Let me get that so we can both get on with our days.”

“Damn, aight bro,” Ethan says before inhaling a cloud of blunt smoke. “Let me get my briefcase.”

Ethan walks to a room out of Snipe’s sight and returns with a briefcase. He sits down on the couch, still smoking his blunt full of weed, and pulls out a key to unlock his locked briefcase. Ethan pulls out a fat wad of cash bounded together by a rubber band. He throws the bundle of cash to Snipe who promptly takes a seat to Ethan’s left on the couch.

“I’m counting this shit before I go,” Snipe says. “Pookie’s orders.” “You don’t trust me, slime?” Ethan asks.
“I don’t even know you mothafucka,” Snipe says.
“You got an attitude issue, b,” Ethan says.

Snipe pulls the rubber band off the stack of bills and starts shuffling threw the bills. There are mostly Benjamin Franklin’s and Ulysses S. Grant’s, but there are a few Andrew Jackson’s, Alexander Hamilton’s, Abraham Lincoln’s, and George Washington’s. Snipe counts the bills of mostly racist White men that either assumed their power during slavery, helped abolish slavery, or tried to maintain the supremacist order of slavery. Fuck Andrew Jackson.

Five minutes pass by and Snipe counts $4,617. He recounts the money and after another seven minutes, he comes up with the total of $4,625. Ethan is nonchalantly smoking the end of his Backwood and rotating music between Roddy Ricch and Lil’ Baby.

“You’re short,” Snipe says. “Basically $500 dollars short.”

“Word?” Ethan says. “Damn, this was a poppin’ month too. My fault — aye, tell Pook to just take the shit out of my cut next month, b.”

“She told me make sure that you had all $5000,” Snipe tells him. “I know you got $500 lying around this bitch. We can go to the ATM too.”

“Man, I ain’t got no fuckin’ credit card,” Ethan says. “Look nigga, I don’t know who you are but I’ve been working for Pookie for two years now. She knows I’ll repay her next cycle. Ain’t like it I haven’t been short before. You sure you don’t want to smoke this shit, blood?”

“You better pull $475 out this mothafucka right now,” Snipe says.

“Or else what, nigga?” Ethan says, standing up from the couch and looking down at Snipe.

Snipe immediately stands up and looks Ethan in his face. Snipe is an easy 6’2, 200 pounds. He has that husky jail body that shows he’s only been hitting push-ups, pull-ups, and bench press. On the other hand, Ethan is 5’10 with his new Off-White shoes on. He’s one of those pretty boy drug dealers. He’s not in the game due to necessity, he’s actually held some societally-accepted jobs in the past, but mostly because there’s not a hustle that can get him new shoes and pretty girls quicker. Both of these men are extremely familiar with the hustling world, but Snipe is undoubtedly the “harder” gentleman of the two.

“Nigga, get out my fucking crib before I call my niggas up,” Ethan says. “I’ll talk to Pook myself. Who the fuck is you?”

Snipe punches Ethan in the face causing Ethan to fall backwards back into the couch. Snipe lunges himself on top of Ethan and keeps delivering blows on Ethan’s face. “Top Off” by Gunna plays in the background as Snipe beats the dealer’s ass.

“You about to find that extra money, mothafucka?!” Snipe asks.

Ethan’s eye is already swollen and blood has filled up his mouth. He tries to protect his face, but Snipe decides to throw jabs into his ribs instead. Ethan curls up in fetus position, trying to protect his body in any way he can.

“No,” Ethan says. No, I don’t got it right now man — FUCK! I spent my cut already man. I got a fucking kid, nigga. I got responsibilities man.”

Ethan doesn’t have a kid. He doesn’t actually have any responsibilities besides driving his used Mercedes Benz around town dropping off drugs to Manhattan’s most privileged. In fact, Ethan did have a large stash of money sitting in his closet that could alleviate his debt, but he was planning on visiting Jane the Jeweler in SoHo with his girl to ice her out. He figured that the guy beating his ass would eventually give up and he would pay Pookie back whatever he was short like he always did. Besides, Ethan thought that nothing would be worse than the wrath of his girlfriend once he told her that they weren’t going to the jeweler anymore. He’d rather get his ass beat any day.

“Look man,” Snipe says. “I’m giving you one last chance. Pookie said to make sure your snake ass had all the money, and now I see the fuck why. You got the money?”

“I said no,” Ethan tells him. “I’ll get Pookie the money back and some next cycle!”

Snipe grabs the blade from his pocket and quickly stabs Ethan three times in the abdomen. Ethan wails with each puncture to his body; his mind unable to process the intense pain that he’s feeling. Ethan looks up at his attacker with a look of confusion and fright. Why is this happening for less than $500 dollars?

“Man… what the fuck…” Ethan says, struggling to get the words out of his mouth.

Snipe jabs the blade in Ethan’s abdomen once more as a stream of blood falls out of his ajar mouth. Ethan is struggling to move and begins choking on his own blood. Snipe takes one of the pillows from the couch and smothers Ethan’s face with it. Snipe figures that he may as well not suffer too much on his way out. After about twelve seconds, Snipe relieves force once he can tell that Ethan is defintely dead.

Snipe checks the pockets of the man he just killed for any extra cash. There’s $118 dollars in his wallet. He checks his socks — another $200 dollars and a vile of coke are stashed away. Snipe figures that he can just make up the extra $157 dollars with whatever deliveries he makes in the next 24 hours. He looks in Ethan’s briefcase and stashes cocaine, molly, and a bag of Xanax bars in his backpack. He figures he’ll just sling that on the side without telling Pookie to get some extra cash and reimburse what he’s covering on behalf of Ethan. Snipe exits Ethan’s apartment as “can’t leave without it” by 21 Savage plays from the Sonos speakers.

Once he’s back in the projects staircase, he realizes that he still has a bloody knife in his hands. Clearly, the adrenaline of killing a man has led to a lapse in judgment. He runs back into Ethan’s apartment and washes both his hands and his bloody knife as the person he murdered lays lifeless in his own home. He opens his backpack and wraps the knife in the shirt he was planning on wearing tomorrow. Once again, he leaves Ethan’s apartment with the same 21 Savage song playing.

Snipe races down the projects steps and tries to gain his exposure before approaching an area flooded with neighborhood dudes and police alike. Snipe exits the building and gives a headnod to same men crowding the entrance on his way out. They nod back and get back to their bullshitting.

Snipe tries to hail a cab, but they all speed past him as if he’s a liability. Although it’s illegal for New York City taxi drivers to discriminate giving rides on the basis of race, all of these taxi drivers are ironically, and unfortunately, justified in their profiling. Snipe tells himself “fuck it” and hustles to the nearest 6 Train that will take him downtown. He tries to block out the sin he’s committed and instead focuses on the next task that Pookie sent him on — picking up the money from Lady’s, the strip club in Williamsburg.

He’s tense on the subway the whole way down. It’s summertime, so the AC isn’t working and people are packed in the train like sardines. A frustrated mother asks Snipe if he can take his backpack off to create more space. There’s a four-minute delay on the crossover into Brooklyn as an MTA employee claims “we are being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher”.

Snipe texts Pookie that he’s outside of the strip club as soon as he arrives. Moments later, the bouncer standing in front of the door receives a phone call and answers. He responds to the person across the line with affirmatory answers, proceeds to open the door for Snipe, and motions for him to go inside.

“She should be in the back in the locker rooms,” the bouncer says. “Walk past the second stage and you’ll see the door.”

Pookie first started teaming up with a stripper, who goes by Kristen, when she realized that many on her most expensive deliverers were heading to strip clubs. Strippers would buy drugs such as coke, molly, and weed to either stay up or stay in the mood. The next time an order was requested from a stripper at Lady’s, Pookie decided to take the trip herself and make a business proposition. Kristen, the stripper she spoke with, would receive one of Magic Hour’s

briefcases and sell drugs to any strippers in-house that needed. Pookie suggested that in addition to Kristen selling to her colleagues, that they all should sell drugs to their clients on the side as an additional hustle. Kristen obliged and the Lady’s strip club in East Williamsburg has been one of Pookie’s most consistent cash cows ever since.

Snipe passes the bar, passes the giant neon sign that reads “IF YOU AIN’T GOT NO MONEY, TAKE YOUR BROKE ASS HOME,” and enters the stripper locker room where he’s supposed to meet and collect from Kristen. However, it’s only 4PM and hardly any of the girls are working, including Kristen, who won’t be at the strip club for another few hours. Instead, the only stripper in the locker room is a pretty, curvy, half-Dominican, half-Filipina with blonde hair. She’s sending selfie videos of herself with various filters on Snapchat while Meg the Stallion’s music plays on the speaker. The stripper is showing off the various gold jewelry she garbs against her brown skin — necklaces, rings, and a Rolex watch.

“Aye,” Snipe says over the blasting “Cash Shit” playing from the speakers. “Aye, shordee.”

The stripper looks over at the man who’s interrupting her video and ignores him. Snipe closes the door behind him and walks closer to the stripper who’s still recording herself on social media. In the back of his mind, naturally, the only thing he can think of is the murder he just committed. Will this fuck things up with Pookie? Nobody is going to check on a drug dealer in the projects anyway and at least he still has the knife which he can just dump later. Fuck, he thinks to himself, he still has the knife on him. The last place he wants to be right now is dealing with some stripper.

“Yo, turn the fucking music off!” Snipe screams at the stripper.

“Who the fuck are you?!” the stripper asks him. “Why the fuck you in here, nigga?” “Pookie sent me,” Snipe says. “I’m here to pick up the drug money.”
The stripper looks at Snipe up and down and looks back at her phone as if he was the

most uninteresting thing she’s ever seen in her life. The music changes, and she’s now playing “Chanel Slides” by Dreezy and Cash Doll. She turns the music up, purposefully defying the unsolicited stranger who demanded she turn it down. Snipe moves over to the stripper, snatches the phone out of her hand, and pauses the music.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” the stripper asks. “Omar — “

“Shut the FUCK up,” Snipe says. “I’m sick of you mothafuckin’ dealers beating around the fucking bush. Give me the goddamn money so I can get on with my day.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” the stripper says. “I’m not the fucking dealer mothafucka… you need to talk to Kristen or some shit.”

“Who the fuck is Kristen?” Snipe asks.

“The bitch you need to be talking to!” the stripper says. “Now give me my mothafuckin’ phone before I have our security whoop your punk ass.”

“Well, what’s your name?” Snipe asks, giving the stripper her phone back.
“Fuck I need to tell you that for?” the stripper says.
“So I can tell Pookie the bitch who said she ain’t have no money in case you lying on

me,” Snipe says.
“How I even know you are who you say you are?” the stripper says. “I’m not telling you

shit, now get the fuck up out of here!”

Snipe grabs the stripper by her blonde hair and throws her to the ground. She shrieks, but neither Omar nor any other security are around to hear her. Snipe continues shouting in her face and demanding to know where the money is.

“I told you, I don’t have any fucking drug money,” the stripper says. “Fuck up off me. My name is Lucy — Lucy!”

Snipe pulls Lucy to her feet and pushes her against the wall. He begins choking her until Lucy desperately taps his arm signaling that she can’t take anymore. He lets her go and she struggles to catch her breath.

“Okay,” Lucy says. “Fuck, I’ll get you some money.”
“Could’ve just done that when I asked the first fucking time,” Snipe says.
Lucy walks over to her locker and pulls out her bag. Snipe walks closely behind her,

looking over her shoulder and watching her every move. Lucy digs through her purse as if she’s searching for something, and eventually pulls out a blade of her own for protection. She turns and tries to lunge at Snipe, but he’s aware of what she’s tried to do and blocks her attempt. Snipe punches Lucy in the face with enough force that she collapses from the impact.

With Lucy passed out, Snipe looks through her purse to see if she’s hiding the money he’s looking for. He finds nothing, but does see a Magic Hour-branded baggy of weed. Snipe clips Lucy’s Rolex off her and stuffs it in his pocket. He spots a couch across the room, picks up Lucy’s unconscious body, and places her on the couch so she appears to be asleep.

“Good looks bro,” Snipe says to the bouncer on his way out.

He’s trying to keep cool, but his actions of the past three hours are weighing heavy on him. An hour-long subway ride to his apartment doesn’t calm his nerves. Once he’s home, smoking a joint and cracking open a beer fail to calm his nerves either.

If anything, smoking the joint has made him more paranoid. He just stabbed a man to death and knocked out a woman. He was just released from jail, where violence is one of the only ways you survive on a daily basis, but he knows that his objective now is to stay low and keep out of trouble. More than anything, he still fears that this will mess up any money he could’ve made hustling for Pookie.

Snipe goes to his bedroom and empties his backpack. He grabs the shirt-wrapped knife and walks outside where he tosses it deep in a garbage can two blocks down. When he gets back to his bedroom, he stuffs Lucy’s Rolex in his briefcase and locks it back up. He figures that he should just pass out for the night and confess to Pookie what he did tomorrow. However, he can’t sleep to save his life. He tries to get something from the fridge — no food. Snipe decides to drink more, hoping that that’ll help him go to sleep. It doesn’t — he tosses, turns, sweats, and anxiously thinks through the night. He finds solace in the fact that at the very least, he can probably make eight-months rent in one day once he pawns off this Rolex.

By the next morning, Snipe hasn’t slept once. He goes to the bodega and buys a bacon, egg, and cheese with a $10 bill from Ethan’s stash. He watches the Channel 4 morning news to see if there were any reports of a dead body at the Washington Houses in East Harlem. There weren’t, but a new Italian restaurant in the Upper East Side was opening for the first time and a dog parade would be taking place on 14th Street.

Around 11:00 AM, Snipe sees the first delivery request in the WhatsApp from Pookie — a weed drop-off to an apartment in Midtown. If Pookie is sending messages for deliveries with Snipe on copy, he figures that she must not have any knowledge about last night’s crimes. He promptly responds to Pookie’s message and confirms that he will make the weed delivery to Midtown.

There’s a young couple at the Midtown apartment, looking for something to help ruthless hangovers from last night’s partying. They ask Snipe if he wants to sit down on the couch. The man pours him a glass of water; they explain that they were celebrating a friend from college’s birthday the night before. They order a batch of Rice Krispy Treat edibles and an eighth of Sour Diesel.

Snipe’s next delivery is to an apartment in the Lower East Side. The apartment already smells like weed when the tenant lets Snipe inside. He buys a half-ounce of Granddaddy Purp and asks Snipe if he wants to spark one before he leaves. Snipe says that he can’t smoke an indica this early in the day or he’ll pass out. The guy says that he has some sativa stashed away if he’d prefer that. Snipe says that he needs to get going; he just accepted another delivery at an apartment in Central Harlem.

When Snipe knocks on the door of our apartment, we’re all sitting on the couches in the living room and speaking on the ethics of social media platforms. Markus pauses the highbrow debate to let our drug dealer in the room. We requested for Magic Hour to come an hour ago, the apartment was basically dry and we wanted to have one last summer Sunday full of weed smoke. We celebrated our last Saturday at a house party a few blocks away from our place. We

pulled up with the big bottle of D’Usse and milly-rocked our ways through the night. A chill, easy smoke sesh was needed before work tomorrow.

“Nah, I’m almost at the point where I’m asking what good does it even bring to the world?” I tell my roommates. “The negatives outweigh the positives and it’s not even close.”

“I disagree,” Quincy says. “It’s given people an opportunity to brand themselves and create opportunities for themselves. I’d argue it’s the best way to find new music and stay in- touch with current events and public opinion. Plus, there are thousands of girls on Instagram that spend hours trying to look sexy, how can you be mad at that?”

“I get depressed after looking at dozens of chickenhead, Instagram girls. Especially when you meet them in real life, and they’re just mad regular,” I respond. “Like okay, I got it, you’re very pretty, or very well-traveled and wealthy, or you have big boobs — but how does that knowledge and your ability to sell Flat Tummy Tea make us a better society or you a more appealing individual.”

“Okay, then look past the Instagram girls that are out there,” Quincy says. “What about how social media mobilized people in Egypt to start the revolution or how we can learn about global travesties through people’s voices on these apps.”

“I feel like those are mostly negative though,” Timmy says. “Think about all the people who used the Notre Dame Church burning as an opportunity to tell everybody that they’ve been to Paris.”

“Right,” I add. “Bitches watched Chernobyl on HBO and thought it was the right time to show ass in a radioactive city where six-legged deer run around.”

“But don’t act like going Blue for Sudan didn’t make an impact,” Quincy says. “There are plenty of Americans who never would’ve found out what was happening in Sudan without social media because mainstream media decided that Sudanese lives aren’t important or good for ratings or both.”

“Like 85% of the people sharing news about the Sudanese protests were Black,” I fire back at Quincy. “How many White people did you see sharing news about that? Just because you can spread news on social media doesn’t mean that new people are necessarily going to engage with it. You had right-wing, nationalist ass mothafuckas agreeing with Russians, who are supposed to be their sworn enemies, just because it fit their discourse. Read up on that Selective Exposure Theory my guy.”

“Unlike you, I don’t only follow White girls on Instagram, so I actually wouldn’t know if they posted about Sudan or not,” Quincy says.

“I’ll take that lie and deflection as a sign of you conceding defeat on this topic,” I say.

“Are there any instances of positivity on social media in your eyes, Kam?” Markus asks me as Snipe takes a seat next to him on the coach and pulls his briefcase out from a backpack.

“Of course, anytime Rihanna posts something on Instagram my nigga,” I respond. “I really hate you, dawg,” Quincy says.

“Alright, what y’all niggas want,” our dealer interrupts. “We got this new Clementine sativa strain, some Super Sour OG Kush, Gorilla Glue #4, Gelato, some Zookies which is a cross between Cookies and Gorilla Glue #4, Banana Kush, and this fire shit called Wedding Cake which is a cross between Cookies and Cherry Pie. I also got some coke, molly, whatever else you want.”

“We cool on that other shit,” Markus says. “Timmy, come smell this shit my boy. I’m thinking either this Zookies or Wedding Cake.”

Timmy leaves his spot next to me on the other couch and heads for Markus and Snipe. Markus hands Timmy the Magic Hour-branded pill bottles of weed so our favorite Asian pothead roommate can investigate the smells. Timmy takes a long sniff of the Zookies capsule and nods his head in delight to the room. Next, he opens the Wedding Cake capsule and takes a long sniff. After ten good seconds of smelling the pill capsule, Timmy throws his head back and passes out in the couch — a sign that we may have found what we’ll be smoking on for the rest of this fine Sunday.

“Kam,” Timmy says still passed out on the couch. “Smell this shit bro.”

I get up from the couch and smack Quincy across his head on my way over. He tries to smack me back, but I dodge that shit like Ali did Michael Dodges in ’77. I pop a squat next to Timmy and grab the Wedding Cake capsule from him. I take a long puff, and as he usually is, my pothead friend is right that this shit right here is fire.

“Goddamn,” I say. “We need this right here for sure. You got anything else like this?” “Probably just this Super Sour OG Kush,” Snipe says. “Mad crystals and all that.” Snipe digs into his briefcase and pulls out another pill bottle. From where I’m sitting, I

can see our living room light catch something shiny in his briefcase. Snipe hands Timmy the capsule of Super Sour OG Kush for him to smell.

“Scoot over Timmy,” I say to my roommate. “Bro, there’s no more room,” he says. “Alright, get up real quick then,” I say.

“Are you fucking serious?” he asks me.
“Yes, please,” I say.
“You’ve been acting crazy ever since you talked to Claudia in the beginning of the

summer man I swear,” Timmy says.
“Preach Timmy,” Quincy says.
“I’ll fuck you both up,” I say as Timmy gets up from the couch. “Both of you can suck my

dick.”
Replacing Timmy on the couch, I have clear sight of Snipe’s briefcase. There are about

20 or 25 capsules of weed, some miscellaneous substances that are probably the aforementioned coke or molly, and a shiny gold watch. I look closer, and the gold-bezelled watch with the black leather strap looks awfully familiar.

“You mind?” I say to the dealer pointing at the copious amount of marijuana in his case. “Go ahead, b,” Snipe says.
I move around a couple of capsules, but just so I can flip over the watch and see if

there’s any engraving on the case back. I grab the Banana Kush bottle and take a smell, but my eyes are focused on the watch that I’ve managed to turn over in my faux kush pursuit. The back of the watch reads: “KM — The World is Yours.”

I hand the bottle back to Snipe and look him dead in the face. I’m unaware of the past 36 hours that this man has endured. I’m unaware that he killed a man for being barely $500 dollars short on his dues. I’m unaware that he’s assaulted and robbed the same woman that robbed me in the beginning of the summer. I’m unaware that he’s fresh out of jail, that he’s desperate to make himself money and stay out of jail, and that he’ll do anything to provide for

his toddler children and is thinking about Christmas in August. The only thing that I’m aware of is that my most prized material possession is sitting right in front of me in the same place that I last had it — my apartment.

“Yo…” I say as I stand on my feet and look down on the Magic Hour drug dealer. “That’s my fucking watch.”

THE END.

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