Free California Connection 2 (Califronia Connection) by Chunichi

to flip through the television channels. Moments later, I began to drift off to sleep.
    What seemed like no more than thirty minutes into my nap, a hunger pang hit my belly like a right hook. I woke up, grabbed the guest book, and flipped through the pages to see what nearby restaurants delivered. I chose to go with pizza.
    I decided to roll a joint while I was waiting for my pizza. I pulled out my deodorant and rolled it until the bar was completely out. Beneath it was a quarter of kush. Then I searched my bag for Backwoods to roll it with.
    “Fuck!” I yelled out loud.
    I was experiencing a weed smoker’s worst nightmare. I had weed and no fucking paper to roll it with. For a second I considered ripping a few pages from the Bible to roll up, but something inside of me just wouldn’t let that happen. With the shit I was in, I needed the Lord on my side, so I couldn’t take the risk of disrespecting His Holy Word. I could possibly wait until the pizza arrived to smoke, but I knew after I ate I would definitely have to smoke. It was like dessert after dinner.
    I called up Poppo. That nigga had to come back and take me to the store or bring me some Backwoods or something.
    “Yo!”
    I was relieved Poppo answered his phone right away. “Poppo, where you at?”
    “Across town. What’s up?”
    “Man, I need some Backwoods bad.”
    “A’ight, I got you. Give me about thirty minutes.”
    Poppo said exactly what I wanted to hear.
    Remembering my baby mother had called earlier, I called Cali to talk to my kids as a way to pass time. And that’s exactly what happened. I was so wrapped up in my conversation with my four kids and two baby mothers, I didn’t even realize forty-five minutes had passed.
    As soon as I hung up the phone with them and was about to call Poppo, the pizza arrived. Feeling hungry as a hostage, I decided to eat first and then call Poppo after.
    Once my belly was full, I called Poppo, and the phone went straight to voicemail. It didn’t even ring. I hung up and called right back. I got the same thing. I tried two more times, and each time I got straight voicemail.
    “Fuck it!”
    Fed up, I put on my shoes, and grabbed a few dollars. I was trying to lay low and not show my face too much because I was in Atlanta to do Sasha in. Plus, I had that outstanding warrant. But a nigga would straight lose his mind without weed, so I headed out of the hotel and to a little corner store I saw at the end of the street.
    I was excited to see exactly what I needed behind the counter as soon as I walked in. I stood in line at the busy store, anxious to get my papers and get back to my hotel room. For three minutes I’d stood in line, and it hadn’t moved at all. For a minute, I thought about leaving and going to the gas station across the street, but I figured I may as well stay, since I was already here.
    I looked down at my vibrating phone. It was Poppo calling. I wasn’t even trying to talk to that fool at this point. I pressed ignore , sending him to voicemail. Finally, the line started to move and minutes later I was at the counter paying for my Backwoods to roll up my weed. As I reached for my change and bag, I heard a commotion at the front door.
    “Don’t move! Everybody, down. Get on the fucking ground!”
    Narcotic police agents had flooded the place.
    Muthafuckas , I thought to myself as I lay on the ground. Running wasn’t even an option. I was surprised when the cops ran right past me and to the back of the store then started bringing out the workers in cuffs, while another officer cuffed each of the customers, searched us, and ran our identification.
    How bad can a nigga’s luck be? Talk about wrong place at the wrong time. I had, just by chance, walked into a store that was a known drug spot. I felt confident I would be walking out though. Once again the fake ID had come in handy. One by one the officers had begun to release the customers that had no drugs on them and whose names had come back