"Damn, nigga pass me the blunt." my nigga Rell says, fixing his gold chain. "Shut up. Be patient. Smokin this shit is a process." I say, closing my eyes and inhaling the smoke. Rell is like a brother to me. When I was fifteen and living in the streets, I bumped into him. His momma took me in and ever since, we been close. Can't no nigga, no pussy, or anything else come between us. This my boy for life. "A process? Me whoopin' yo golden ass is a process too. Pass the fuckin weed." He says. I laugh and hand it. "Always talkin shit. Hurry up and put that out. We got money to make nigga." I say. "It's a process to smokin this." He mocks. I shake my head. He be bitchin but this my nigga. I ain't trippin off him. He throws it in the grass then steps on it. "Let's go." I say. We start walking up the street, headed to the trap. We keep some of the product here with a few workers. It's no major weight in there. I unlock the door and step in. Weed, laughter, naked hoes, my workers, money, ...