Thirty-seven: From A Man.

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Don't your clothes say Celine? You stylin'. Your ex been tryna call back, your shit pure crack. Few billion in plaques, better hide it in the house.

Young Thug: From A Man.

Young Thug: From A Man

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Ezriah

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Ezriah.

"See this?" I questioned the young boy standing in front of me. Holding up the sprite bottle, through the clear bottle you can see that instead of the soda being clear, it was a dark purple.

"This is wock, now this right here?" I held up the other sprite bottle, which held an orange substance. "This is tris. Any nigga sippin' on this? Ain't sippin' right."

This boy titled his head to the side, examining the bottles. "Then why you got it?"

Sucking my teeth, I sat both bottles down. "To have an example, to show ya' dumb ass. Lil nigga." I scoffed. "Dont question me, aight? I'm giving you a large amount of lean for a decent price. Now run me my 20 pack."

The little nigga had the audacity to laugh, my straight face never budged—I didn't get the joke. "20 bands for some 'wock' how I know ya shit gas?"

Scoffing, I opened the sprite bottle. Holding it up, I gestured for him to come closer. "Smell it."

He didn't move, not an inch. He stood there, and stared at me with a sly grin. Shaking my head, I counted to three in my head before reacting. In reality, I wanted to smack the fuck out this nigga. "Trell, I look like I'm laughing?" I asked him.

Standing up, I stalked towards him. Holding the bottle up to his nose, if looks could kill, his little ass would be dead. Slowly, he brought his nose to the tip of the bottle. Once he got a whiff, he backed away. Covering his nose, he squinted his eyes. "That's some gas for sure."

"Almost knocked ya ass out wit' just a smell. Now let's cut the small talk, run me my bag."

Sucking his teeth, Trell patted his pockets. Pulling out a wad of cash from his left pocket, he thumbed through the hundreds, "twenty pack for seven bottles though?"

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