Speaker 1: Trey and his friends had been looking forward to a
chill night, just kicking back and trying out Boys in
the Hood, a new strain by Angry Fruit Genetics that
had everyone in their neighborhood buzzing. The rumor was that
it hit hard and had a way of, as the
guy at the dispensary put it, bringing back memories. So
armed with snacks and old boombox and a few pre rods, Trey, Marcus,
and De Shaun settled into the warm couch on Trey's porch,
eager for a throwback evening. They sparked up the earthy
diesel like smoke filling the air and began swapping stories
from their old days, fights, pranks, the dumb things they
used to get into. As they laughed and reminisced, the
we started to hit harder. The streets seemed to get darker,
the street lights dimmer, the familiar sound of the neighborhood
started feeling distant and muffled. Suddenly, they heard the unmistakable
screeches of tires, followed by a thumping baseline. They looked
up to see a beat up, candy painted car, headlights off,
cruising slowly down the block. It was like something straight
out of the early two thousands. The driver wore a
bucket hat and had one hand hanging out the window,
his eyes hidden behind massive glasses. Yo doesn't that look
like Ricky? Marcus whispered, squinting in disbelief. Trey chuckled a
little nervous nah man, Ricky moved out years ago, remember,
But as the car crept closer, they could see the
driver clearly, and it was Ricky, or at least someone
who looked exactly like him, down to the oversized hoodie
he always wore. But that wasn't the weirdest part. Sitting
next to him in the passenger seat was Trey. Not
Trey right now, but a younger Tray with a high
top fade and a big chain they used to call
his starter blame. The car rode to a stop in
front of them, and Ricky leaned out, graining wide. Y'are
trying to row? He asked, nodding towards the back seat,
where two more clones of Marcus and Deshaan sat staring
blankly ahead. The three friends stared at each other, speechless.
Just then Marcus's clone rolled down the window and pointed
at the blunt in Marcus's hand. You didn't think you
could smoke without us, did you. Trey felt the chill
run down his spine as the older version of himself
and the car winked at him, holding up the boys
in the hood pre row that looked exactly like the
one in his hand. They all bolted off the porch,
running down the block, their laughter mixing with genuine panic
as the car rode slowly behind him, its speakers blasting
some ancient hip hop tune they hadn't heard in years.
The car's lights flickered before it finally peeled away, vanishing
as quickly as it appeared. Back at the porch, the
blunt was still smoldering right where they left it. Trey
picked it up, chuckling, never touching this stuff again. Next time,
We're sticking to the basics. The next day, none of
them spoke about it. Not At first, Trey tried to
convince himself it was just a hallucination, a weird collective trip.
Maybe someone had released the weed. Maybe it was just
a coincidence. Maybe maybe nothing happened at all. But then
Deshaun called that evening, Yo, Trey, I think that we
did something like for real. Trey sighed, man, don't start.
I saw myself again. DeShawn whispered, and namerah this morning,
not now me, old me corn rolls, throw back Jersey,
go grill. He was brushing his teeth and sink with me.
I blinked and he was gone. There was a long
silence before Marcus's voice chimed in on the three way call.
It wasn't just a trip. I woke up to my
Air Force ones at the foot of my bed, the
ones I threw out in twenty ten, and they looked
brand new. Trey didn't respond right away. He walked over
to his dresser and opened the bottom drawer folded neatly.
Inside was a shirt he hadn't seen in over a decade.
His old Rockefella tea still smelled like the cheap cologne
they used to bathe them back in the day. His
fingers trembled as he touched it. What the hell is
this strain? He finally muttered, like is it bringing stuff back?
Or are we going back? Later that night, Trey couldn't sleep.
The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that
made you feel like something was watching you. Two am,
the boombox on his porch, long dead for years, sputtered
to life with the soft static. Then a voice crackled
through the speaker, distorted but unmistakably come tick it like
old times. Tray frose. It was his voice, Young Tray.
He stepped outside, heart pounding, and there it was again,
that car parked in front of his house. Can't he
painted gleaming under the flickering street lamp, the bass rattling
with the chopped up remix of a song they used
to freestyle to in high school. Inside the versions of them,
they're young selves sat motionless, staring forward, but they looked
worn down now still eyed hale, like something had drained
the life from them. Stray called out, what do you
want the young Tray and the passengers. He turned his
head slowly. You gave us life, want yours? The car
door preaked open in Unison. That was when Trey noticed
something new. Dozens of shadows slinking up the side streets.
More familiar faces from the past, some alive, some who
had died, old bullies, ex friends, even his cousin who
had died in the drive by years ago, eyes blank,
chanting like a broken tape, loop, Row with us, Row
with us. Tray backed the way, heart thudding, and ran inside,
slamming the door. But every mirror, every TV screen, every
black surface inside the house now reflected not him but them,
his past, his ghost, all staring back, And in the
corner of every reflection stood young Tray, smiling, holding that
same blunt. The next morning, Marcus and Dechan showed up
at Trey's place, visibly shaken. Both claimed their phones had
reset overnight, All photos, messages, and apps wiped clean, except
for one thing, a single contact saved in their phones,
Ride or Die original mix. When they tried to delete it,
the phone glitched and restarted itself. When they called it,
their own voices answered, laughing like they used to when
they were teenagers, before the world hardened them. They agreed
right then to destroy the rest of the Boys in
the Hood stash. They burned it in the trash can
behind Trey's house. The smoke bellowed, black and thick, with
something inside it screamed, not a sound they could explain,
like a warped cassette being chewed up while someone whispered
memories through a rotary phone. It was gone, but the
damage was done. Sometimes on certain nights, when the moon
hangs low and the street light buzzes and flickers. A
candy painted ride is seen rolling slowly down their neighborhood,
no headlights, just bast and ghost. No matter how many
times Tray changes his phone, that contact always comes back.
Sometimes it calls him at three or old three am,
and if he picks up, he hears a voice ask
you ready to row. Yet he never answers. He just
stares at the mirror afterward, counting how long it takes
for his younger self to disappear again. He never smokes
unknown strains anymore, and when people ask about boys in
the Hood, he only says it doesn't just bring back memories,
it brings them back. Big shout outs to the real
crow is keeping the culture alive. Today's strain Boys in
the Hood comes from the talented reader Angry Fruit Genetics.
You can find their work on Instagram at Angry Underscore
Fruit Underscore Genetics. Go show them some love and tell
them how and Scared sent you. Stay lifted, stay curious,
and remember every high brings you back down. This is
Lady Cush signing off from High and Scared, where every
puff has a story. Mm hmm