Brandon grabbed the clip away from Taz. “Dude, you’re like, time out, you’re hoarding!”

Taz pulled up the rim of his hat and looked at Brandon. “Bran, man, I wouldn’t hog the nice. You’re like my bro, Bro.”

Brandon took a drag. He felt the burn in the back of his throat, like Atomic Fireballs, but without the cinnamon. “Dawg, I had a dream last night about the end of the world. What about the end of the world, man?”

“The end of the weed! Bro, we share the nice. Remember?!”

“No, Taz, the world ended. I was just like, dude, 2 plus 2 is 4 and 2 times 2 is 4! It’s a freakin’ paradox, man.”

“I got a pair of Dockers, Bran. They are bangin’ with a pair of Vans.”

“No, Taz, it’s like . . . look 42 is an enigma. It be sitting there all even and shit, and then, BANG, it spits out a 6 times 7 and you’re like ‘Wha is goin’ down?’ It’s a paradox. The world can’t handle it, like dark matter and shit.”

“My mom got a pair of docs, Bran. Your momma need a doc? You let me know, Bro.”

“Thanks, Man.”