I was fully aware that this was a test. A measure of how deep I'd plunged into the drug labyrinth. Having navigated the Turkish ghetto's drug scene, I understood the need to craft a joint of pristine perfection. It was a rite of passage, a ritualistic dance to showcase my expertise. Back in the day, we'd put new acquaintances through the same hoops. And then there was this ghetto gesture-the move of hurling the joint against a wall. It wasn't just about displaying your rolling prowess; it was a declaration. A way of saying, "Don't underestimate me; I'm no lightweight stoner." I rolled the joint, and with a modest flick of the wrist, I threw the joint on the table. There was a message-a proclamation of rolling mastery and a subtle warning: tread carefully, for I'm no novice in this weed business.