The tatty, plastic chair I sat it made yet another squeak as I move in it to get comfortable. The strong smell of weed, white and dark creates a toxin in the air like we were on the verge of a new Great British Plague. All of us soon to become corpses as a result of our own gritty need for our fix: money.
"That's like, ten bags right there," I state loudly, making sure Roms could hear me. "Swear? Bro, you're a little eager beaver, bro," he jokes, making Lz and some more of the mandem laugh.