#seven 11

ZOUNDS

I put on my Sunday best (a fetching ensemble consisting of a blue COLLEGE tshirt that fit me once and dope Denim Pants) and go forth to remedy the situation.

Walk into the Sev like what up I got a big cock and begin scouring for tin foil. They have thirteen breeds of Reynold's wrap, but nary a metallic crinkle to be found.

Behind the counter is a boy whose name was almost certainly Melvin. He was  pockmarked and myopic and seemed to breathe primarily through his mouth.

"Yo, dyou guys gotin foil?" I mumbyelled. I have difficulty gauging my volume when high, and have better things to do than fully open my mouth, so I compensate by loud, articulate gibberish.

"what"

"Tin foil. Do you got it?" I left the 'motherfucker' unspoken, but implied.

"Do you need... like... a whole pad?"

I don't know where Melvin came from or what he's seen. I don't know his life story. I do know that I'd never seen a pad of tin foil.

"Mabbe. Ijus, a lil bit."

A credit to Melvin, he managed to decipher my Boomhouer speech patterns and offered me a single sheet of aluminum sandwich-wrap. I accepted graciously.

"Thanngsmen, yer my SAVior," I say, heading for the door.