[I apologize...I was the one who was initially supposed to be doing a story swap, but the deadline was so long I forgot about it until now. Hopefully this makes up for it because the beginning of this story is awesome...]
Jamal, Darrell and Ty smirk with pleasure, and you suddenly feel proud at their obvious pride in you. Just for good measure, you take another huge inhale of the blunt and let the smoke rest in your chest for some time. You then blow out the smoke and watch as the rest of them nod their heads in appreciation.
"You like this shit?" asked Jamal.
You nod unexpectedly and then pass the blunt. You've never smoked anything before, but are surprisingly liking the feelings that are overpowering you. The music is shaking the bass of the car, and you hear Lil' Boosie and Webbie rapping about the hood and the drug game.
"This shit go hard," you hear yourself say. What the hell? You've never liked rap music, and your voice sounds...different...raspy and gruffer than usual. You are struggling to find the words you would have used to use in this situation, but find them eluding you.
"Look at this nigga here," Darrell says. "Soon you gon' be mobbin' wit us, not givin' a fuck," he says.
Something inside you fights back...this isn't a lifestyle you want! You like your old life of tennis, getting along with your family, church, doing well in school, classic rock and living a drug free life. But the magic in the marijuana is quickly overpowering you and stripping you of your old persona. You feel the urge to submit to their lifestyle rising rapidly...
"Off top," you say. You can't fight it anymore...these guys are rapidly turning into your role models. You feel a sudden urge to abandon your lifestyle and dress like them, talk like them and take up dealing drugs like them. Your vocabulary is changing, and you suddenly understand everything they say. Your aggression is changing as well. Before this you were non-confrontational, but now you know that anybody that gets in your face is going down.
"Let's ride," Darrell says. You swagger over to the car and get in. You peel out of the lot blasting music and they light up another blunt. You inhale, savoring the smell and letting it further alter your brain.
"What the fuck you wearin," Jamal sneers at you. "Some whiteboy shit, fuckin' polo shirt and boat shoes, we gon' get you fitted up."
You smile, pleased. These clothes are terrible...you can't wait to get a new uniform to broadcast to the world that you are now one of them...