Don't Sell Weed to My Husband

Red light district. Nothing but kitty cats and cat food. That's crackheads and drugs to the ghetto-logics impaired. And this ain't pretty woman, oh no. Richard Gere comes looking for a lady of the night in these ends he's getting robbed and the money's going on crack cocaine! Fuck Versace. At least that's how it used to be, until the prostitutes got put on ASBOs and had to vacate the area. The guy crackheads can't smoke without the girls so they left too. No money to be made no shotters to be seen, that's dealers to the ghetto-logics impaired, but they all followed suit.

Back then was the good old days. I mean of course it was bad, from a law-abiding citizen's perspective, but at least back then the ends had a soul, a heartbeat, a perfectly functioning, dysfunctional family, living together in chaotic harmony. Nowadays, it just ain't the same. The people have changed. The hive still buzzes, but the honeys got no taste.

Polish, Romanians, Czech. They're the families occupying every other house on every street in 2016. Not that I have a problem with that. How can I? Our grandparents were foreigners too. These are good people, hard-working, polite, family oriented. It's just, who the fuck are they?

Before, I could tell you who eighty percent of the people living here were, now I'd say around eight. But one thing that never changed, everybody knows who to buy their weed from. My good friend, Lloyd Barclay.

Now Lloyd isn't your typical dealer. He didn't get into this so he could buy a BMW one series and an 18 karat watch that shimmers in the light like the pavement on a frosty morning. In fact, the financial gain didn't even cross his mind. Around five years ago, his mother got sick. The big C. They caught it early enough but it had to be treated. Chemo didn't sit too will with his mom, she just seemed to be getting worse.

Homer running off with Maud Flanders leaves Bart as the man of the house, so Lloyd has to be the one to look out for Marge. He began doing research into a more natural cure for her ailment, holistic methods and such. After much coaxing, he managed to ween her onto a vegan diet, Jamaicans loving chicken as they do I can imagine his struggle. But one remedy that popped up across the less ventured regions of cyberspace was cannabis oil, and the reports showed real promise. So he started growing, organic natural marijuana only, no chemical bullshit. His mom showed a lot of improvement, she even stopped chemo altogether and just three short years later, you'd never even think she had it in the first place.

He said he loved growing bud. It was like giving birth to a child and watching it grow, he became very paternal. His reasons for moving into the retail field are twofold; a) he grew too damn much, and doesn't smoke it, and b) the electricity bill started to run into the hundreds, and an 18-year old college student surviving off EMA can't afford to pay that.

Now this is how he got his business flourishing and managed to avoid the helicopters detecting the heat coming from his place when they fly over. Since the age of 5, Lloyd and his mother has lived in a flat above the best chippy in all of Wolverhampton. No, not Majors. I say the best chippy and it really is, but it's got jack shit to do with the nasty food they sell down there. Tell me a corner-shop that you know of that still sells single fags? All the shops around here close at half eight, through fear of some addict sticking them up when clucking for a stone. But this chip shop sells fags and booze well after dark - plus Rizla and grinders, everything you need on a Friday night. And with the Bossman kindly allowing him to supply weed from the shop, this makes it session central.

He started growing skunk of the cheese variety, just to fill the demand for the shit. Six months down the line, he was moving five ounces a day. But in that line of work, trouble is never far away, and trouble comes in many forms. Usually it's the police or some jealous prick that wants to rob you. Not for Lloyd, his trouble came in the form of a local Polish stoner, Mateusz Przyblyski.