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Speaker 1: Trey and his friends had been looking forward to a

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chill night, just kicking back and trying out Boys in

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the Hood, a new strain by Angry Fruit Genetics that

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had everyone in their neighborhood buzzing. The rumor was that

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it hit hard and had a way of, as the

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guy at the dispensary put it, bringing back memories. So

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armed with snacks and old boombox and a few pre rods, Trey, Marcus,

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and De Shaun settled into the warm couch on Trey's porch,

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eager for a throwback evening. They sparked up the earthy

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diesel like smoke filling the air and began swapping stories

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from their old days, fights, pranks, the dumb things they

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used to get into. As they laughed and reminisced, the

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we started to hit harder. The streets seemed to get darker,

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the street lights dimmer, the familiar sound of the neighborhood

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started feeling distant and muffled. Suddenly, they heard the unmistakable

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screeches of tires, followed by a thumping baseline. They looked

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up to see a beat up, candy painted car, headlights off,

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cruising slowly down the block. It was like something straight

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out of the early two thousands. The driver wore a

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bucket hat and had one hand hanging out the window,

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his eyes hidden behind massive glasses. Yo doesn't that look

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like Ricky? Marcus whispered, squinting in disbelief. Trey chuckled a

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little nervous nah man, Ricky moved out years ago, remember,

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But as the car crept closer, they could see the

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driver clearly, and it was Ricky, or at least someone

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who looked exactly like him, down to the oversized hoodie

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he always wore. But that wasn't the weirdest part. Sitting

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next to him in the passenger seat was Trey. Not

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Trey right now, but a younger Tray with a high

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top fade and a big chain they used to call

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his starter blame. The car rode to a stop in

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front of them, and Ricky leaned out, graining wide. Y'are

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trying to row? He asked, nodding towards the back seat,

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where two more clones of Marcus and Deshaan sat staring

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blankly ahead. The three friends stared at each other, speechless.

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Just then Marcus's clone rolled down the window and pointed

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at the blunt in Marcus's hand. You didn't think you

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could smoke without us, did you. Trey felt the chill

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run down his spine as the older version of himself

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and the car winked at him, holding up the boys

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in the hood pre row that looked exactly like the

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one in his hand. They all bolted off the porch,

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running down the block, their laughter mixing with genuine panic

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as the car rode slowly behind him, its speakers blasting

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some ancient hip hop tune they hadn't heard in years.

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The car's lights flickered before it finally peeled away, vanishing

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as quickly as it appeared. Back at the porch, the

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blunt was still smoldering right where they left it. Trey

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picked it up, chuckling, never touching this stuff again. Next time,

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We're sticking to the basics. The next day, none of

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them spoke about it. Not At first, Trey tried to

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convince himself it was just a hallucination, a weird collective trip.

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Maybe someone had released the weed. Maybe it was just

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a coincidence. Maybe maybe nothing happened at all. But then

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Deshaun called that evening, Yo, Trey, I think that we

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did something like for real. Trey sighed, man, don't start.

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I saw myself again. DeShawn whispered, and namerah this morning,

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not now me, old me corn rolls, throw back Jersey,

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go grill. He was brushing his teeth and sink with me.

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I blinked and he was gone. There was a long

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silence before Marcus's voice chimed in on the three way call.

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It wasn't just a trip. I woke up to my

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Air Force ones at the foot of my bed, the

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ones I threw out in twenty ten, and they looked

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brand new. Trey didn't respond right away. He walked over

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to his dresser and opened the bottom drawer folded neatly.

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Inside was a shirt he hadn't seen in over a decade.

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His old Rockefella tea still smelled like the cheap cologne

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they used to bathe them back in the day. His

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fingers trembled as he touched it. What the hell is

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this strain? He finally muttered, like is it bringing stuff back?

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Or are we going back? Later that night, Trey couldn't sleep.

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The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that

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made you feel like something was watching you. Two am,

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the boombox on his porch, long dead for years, sputtered

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to life with the soft static. Then a voice crackled

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through the speaker, distorted but unmistakably come tick it like

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old times. Tray frose. It was his voice, Young Tray.

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He stepped outside, heart pounding, and there it was again,

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that car parked in front of his house. Can't he

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painted gleaming under the flickering street lamp, the bass rattling

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with the chopped up remix of a song they used

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to freestyle to in high school. Inside the versions of them,

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they're young selves sat motionless, staring forward, but they looked

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worn down now still eyed hale, like something had drained

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the life from them. Stray called out, what do you

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want the young Tray and the passengers. He turned his

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head slowly. You gave us life, want yours? The car

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door preaked open in Unison. That was when Trey noticed

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something new. Dozens of shadows slinking up the side streets.

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More familiar faces from the past, some alive, some who

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had died, old bullies, ex friends, even his cousin who

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had died in the drive by years ago, eyes blank,

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chanting like a broken tape, loop, Row with us, Row

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with us. Tray backed the way, heart thudding, and ran inside,

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slamming the door. But every mirror, every TV screen, every

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black surface inside the house now reflected not him but them,

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his past, his ghost, all staring back, And in the

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corner of every reflection stood young Tray, smiling, holding that

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same blunt. The next morning, Marcus and Dechan showed up

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at Trey's place, visibly shaken. Both claimed their phones had

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reset overnight, All photos, messages, and apps wiped clean, except

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for one thing, a single contact saved in their phones,

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Ride or Die original mix. When they tried to delete it,

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the phone glitched and restarted itself. When they called it,

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their own voices answered, laughing like they used to when

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they were teenagers, before the world hardened them. They agreed

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right then to destroy the rest of the Boys in

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the Hood stash. They burned it in the trash can

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behind Trey's house. The smoke bellowed, black and thick, with

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something inside it screamed, not a sound they could explain,

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like a warped cassette being chewed up while someone whispered

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memories through a rotary phone. It was gone, but the

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damage was done. Sometimes on certain nights, when the moon

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hangs low and the street light buzzes and flickers. A

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candy painted ride is seen rolling slowly down their neighborhood,

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no headlights, just bast and ghost. No matter how many

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times Tray changes his phone, that contact always comes back.

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Sometimes it calls him at three or old three am,

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and if he picks up, he hears a voice ask

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you ready to row. Yet he never answers. He just

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stares at the mirror afterward, counting how long it takes

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for his younger self to disappear again. He never smokes

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unknown strains anymore, and when people ask about boys in

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the Hood, he only says it doesn't just bring back memories,

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it brings them back. Big shout outs to the real

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crow is keeping the culture alive. Today's strain Boys in

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the Hood comes from the talented reader Angry Fruit Genetics.

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You can find their work on Instagram at Angry Underscore

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Fruit Underscore Genetics. Go show them some love and tell

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them how and Scared sent you. Stay lifted, stay curious,

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and remember every high brings you back down. This is

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Lady Cush signing off from High and Scared, where every

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puff has a story. Mm hmm