"Get out my face wit allat shit man." I mushed one of my regulars face. He always tells me his name but I forget it. Why would I make an effort to remember it? He's just my customer. Ain't like he my nigga.
"Just sell me some. You know I'm good for it." He reached in his Raf Simmons jacket and pulled out a crisp Andrew Jackson. I rolled my eyes. This nigga never learns.
"Listen Jason-" "Jordan." He corrected me. "Whatever nigga, you know what this is. This is straight loud. Twenty dollars not even gon get you a dime, let alone a gram." I leaned against the brick building I was on the side of. This is my corner. Everyone knows it.
"Just sell it to me princess, you know I'm good for it." He put his hands in his pocket. I looked him up and down. If he can hand over $700 for some Gucci shoes, he can easily slide me a Ulysses.
"You know its always $50 Jahron." I crossed my arms.
"You think that shit funny." He chuckled and put his hands in his jean pockets. I could tell they were designer but I didn't know what brand.
"No, I think the fact that you're wearing all these big brands but can't afford a $50 dollar gram of weed is pretty amusing." I shrugged and put the baggy back in my Northface jacket pocket. It was getting chilly. "Are we done here? I got other customers willing to pay."
He rolled his eyes then poked his lip out. He leaned on the street light pole. "How about I buy a dime for $25? That work?"
"No nigga it doesn't. I'm not selling dimes. Lil niggas sell dimes. I'm selling grams Jamal, grams!"
He laughed and crossed his arms. He looked genuinely amused. "Ima come back later wit fitty, ight?"'
"Yeah whatever broke boy."
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One Shots
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