Vanity. Ares

hundred pounds worth. He told me that if I sold
the drugs that we could split some of the money, as
his cousin was growing weed in-house, according
to his explanation he described the situation as
being “full op” he kept saying. “We got the lights,
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
the equipment, we even got heat detectors, ‘cos
you know they’ve got helicopters and stuff. It's a
full op mate.” said Ronnie, proudly nodding his
head at this. I said, “Good for you guys, just don't
get caught.” I was happy for Ronnie and his
cousin, mostly as it meant that I could possibly
pull some money together.
Later that day Ronnie and Beckett also
became friends as Beckett came down to smoke
some of the weed and they bonded over the
rehashing of the humour of my story of Gerard,
Martinq and me leaving because of the
misunderstanding after the threesome. The
evening came that Tuesday and I walked back to
my room: four walls, noise from above (not God)
having sold a bag of weed to a Rasta guy I knew in
Pembury. Although I had put a bit of dust I found
on the edge of the window seal into the bag in
order to increase the price, The Rasta tasted some
of the weed; taking a toke to then say: “Bumbaclart
man came wida fire weed ya know. Where you get
the ting?” I told him that it was from a batch from
Romford, and knew that Ronnie and his cousin
were growing some really good stuff from his
reaction. I sold the stuff, left the Rasta and got
back to my room. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes
had passed and there was then a knock at the door.
I forgot to look through the peephole and opened
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