Vergil Smith
4 min readOct 31, 2021


2005 A Drug Boy with a Gun

This still kinda freaks me out … I couldn’t have been more than a few miles from my relative’s house in Atlanta when I saw some random guy standing on the corner in a neighbourhood of apartments. They looked just like any number of apartment complexes in Atlanta. Past the crack motels on Stone Mountain Highway, there was a rather quiet neighbourhood and the fact that there was someone standing there was strange. I pretended to be lost and he offered directions. As I began to pull off, he asked what was I looking for. I have no idea why he knew I was up to something. I didn’t think I gave off that vibe. I said “rock”. He just smiled and pulled out a bag of crack and said “how much you want?”. I said give me 5 … he paused and said, “let me ride with you and I’ll make it 10”. I replied with no hesitation, “hop on in.” I had no clue about danger or circumstances. All I really cared about was the drug … it was always about crack.

We ended up in some cul-de-sac and this was interesting because everyone around there had that look of desperation … that look of wanting to get high. He called at a few people and we all went into his apartment.

I have never seen anything like this before or since. The entire apartment was full of stuff: newspapers, magazines, dishes, old lamps, tires, vacuum cleaners, mould, bread … it was so full of things that there was only one way to walk through the apartment … and we had to walk single file. This path went through the kitchen in the back to the living room in the front. In the living room, there was a couch, but I had to sit straight up without stretching my legs out …there was no room. We smoked for about an of 47 133 hour before we decided to go get more. As we left, some random guy came up on us from no where. He was obviously the dealer

Dealer: Yo!

Me: Me?

Dealer: Nah, muthafucker … I’m talking to that bitch ass nigga you with, Chris

Chris: Man what’s up?

Dealer: Nigga, you know what’s up! Give me my shit.

Chris: I told you I’d have it by tomorrow. Let’s go.

The Dealer pulled out his gun and aimed it at Chris. it was like some sort of strange picture because the dealer kept smiling the whole time. He seemed so easy going and relaxed. He walked up to Chris and put the gun to his head. Chris stopped rigid and didn’t move. He was frozen. I started talking:

Me: Wait, man wait! What? What’s happening here? Come on bruh, put that shit away. What you want?!

To this day, I have no idea why the Dealer looked at me and politely asked who I was and then proceeded to tell me how much Chris owed him. It became clear quickly that we had smoked up what Chris was supposed to sell. Chris had fucked up. I convinced the Dealer to wait a minute and talk to me. In other words, I was willing to do just about anything to make this situation less crazy.

Me: What can we do to make this right … I was with Chris the whole time and he didn’t do anything I could see to fuck over you.

The dealer laughed.

Dealer: “Nigga, you think all that shit y’all done smoke was free? … nigga owe me 500. Get my money or give me my work.

Work meant product. I knew we were in trouble. I also knew I needed to get out of there. Lucky enough, the Dealer never asked me for the money. He blamed Chris. So, I literally stood there for what seemed like hours wondering what was going to happen. They kept arguing, but I honestly cannot remember what exactly they were saying. I kinda went into a protect or shock mode and kept seeing myself shot or in prison or dead. I was shaking and sweating. Finally, they went inside Chris’s house. I went to my car. Chris yelled he would be back out. Instead of leaving, I just waited. Why? There was more crack to smoke. I had some money, and I wanted more crack and this was my only connection. So I waited.