Dzion Apparel

Once upon a night,11:40-ish to be exact, I was walking home from a rather late social gathering on Mission St.

I had made it to a red light on 21st ST., when suddenly a black Honda CR-X pulled up to the sidewalk right next to me. The passenger window rolled down, and I instantly prepared to duck, juke, and dive out of the path of a spray bullets. But, to my avail the passenger, clad in a dark hoody and sunglasses, sternly asks me this question,

“Yo, homie, what sect you from?!”

I knew instantly what he was inquiring; he wanted to know what street gang I affiliate with, but unfortunately for him I hadn’t found time in my life to partake in that sort of camaraderie. 

I thought to myself, “Well, f*#k, I am about to die over some really arbitrary s#$t tonight, so, this is it, this is how I go.”

I stuttered at first, but then gained a second wind when I uncovered a loophole in death’s plan and confidently replied, “Oh, I’m not from San Francisco, I’m from New Zealand!”

The passenger leaned over towards the driver and with a great deal of confusion belted out, “The fuck is New Zealand?!”

He then leaned back out of the window and said, “Aight den, keep it New Zealand.”

The light turned green, and the car whisked off.

I walked away from that experience with 3 thoughts -

1. “I. AM. ALIVE!”

2. “New Zealand might have some street credit.”

3. “…New Zealand has no street credit.”

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