I try to find someone to share my prize with.
I ask a security guard.
You wanna come smoke?
KH guest house.
KH? Ooo, no. Poli’ jab. Ort la’or.
(No. Police arrest there. Not good).
I saunter back to street 81 wondering who I can invite to smoke with me.
I haven’t heard from Razor.
No idea where she is.
I’ve also no idea the gram of gear in my wallet was a set up.
I’ve no idea.
That’s how smart I am.
You hear of Christian missionaries…Weightlifters for Christ, Dancers for Christ, Actors for Christ…
I’m stupid for Christ.