Playboi Carti Fanfiction

doves in the wind

Ian wasn't that much of a man. He had the frame of a little boy, very similar to me. We both were flat chested and skinny, my waist was smaller than his but my shoulders were the same width as his. My upper body seemed as a triangle where my shoulders were broad but my waist was a twenty four. My hips however were a thirty two, expanding my lower half.

My sunglasses are essential for hiding my identity if need be so I wear a pair. I lock up my house which is located right on the beach.

The air is crisp as it enters my nostrils and a salty beach smell catches my senses. The island is small and to my left I can see a shore as well as my right.

The people around here come in all different shapes and sizes, except they all have this Carribean accent.

I wonder where I could get good weed from. I watched this Vice documentary a few months ago. The series of documentaries was called strain hunters or something like that. They explored different countries, trying to find weed and one was the Carribean islands.

I remember they came to a farm ran by grandmothers trying to make money. It was weird because the grandmothers never used the drugs, they just sold. So I followed the footsteps of what I remembered them doing.

I couldn't even rewatch the episode on my phone because I threw my phone out in the airport trash can. I lost all connection with the outside world.

So I began my hunt. I was told by a nearby citizen that the grandmothers who ran the farms were up in the mountains. So I began.

I stopped at a nearby shop to buy some lemon eucalyptus oil for the mosquitoes and bugs. The Caribbeans used oils and herbs rather than manmade chemicals.

This island was truly beautiful. As I traveled higher and higher, the farther I could see.

By the time I got to the farm, the sun was beginning to set so I assumed the time was around seven. I approached one of the ladies as she hoed a field of whatever she was growing.

"Excuse me." I cautiously approached.

She shot her head up to me and looked at me, awaiting an answer.

"Hi, I was wondering if you grew any ganja?" I asked her.

She observed me as if making sure I wasn't a government official. It was illegal to grow and sell weed in Jamaica so I understood her concern.

"Sinsemilla?" I repeated myself, using a word that the natives used to describe the highest quality of cannabis.

"Come." She told me.

I followed her pre cautiously.

"How much you want?" Her accent spoke to me.

"One pound." I told her. I began to pull out the four thousand dollars I thought she would want me to pay for.

"One hundred sixty." I couldn't believe my ears. I was shocked.

"Wait is this bad quality? I said Sinsemilla."

"Sinsemilla." She repeated, beckoning me to follow her to a hole about ten feet from us.