Christian looked disappointed but we didn’t have time for overweight Ritalin adicts, plus we only had 24. So we pay for these fucking things, three bucks a piece, plus the ten cent per bag fee in this goddamn city, totaling $72.80. While we’re walking back to the war room, we’re unable to contain our urge to crack these things open and so we open them right there on the street. We wrap the paper bags around these tiny, round cans to conceal the contents, public open-container 40oz style, while the two other cans of BuzzBallz rattle around in the bottom of our bags like an old’s man’s testicles in his wrinkly, sagging scrotum.
At the underpass, we encounter a homeless man banging on trash cans with old, broken mop handles telling us, “I just be playin’ da drums. Hey, what the hell y’all got all up in them bags?”
“BuzzBallz.”
“Ah, yeah. BuzzBallz. Let me tell y’all her up on now little story ‘bout BuzzBallz. I was in the first ever black Kiss cover band.”
“That’s great. What about the BuzzBallz story?”
“What you mean? There alcohol up in them things?”
“Yes.”
“Aw, yeah. I got a Facebook, y’all know.”
And so we got the hell out of that.