He said it. He meant it. He did it.

Tired of getting his car broken into, his stuff stolen, tired of being beat up and having his pride shot. "Y'know what? Fuck this shit. I'm movin' to a white neighborhood where no one's gunna break into my car!" And y'know what? They just laughed at him.

Well who's laughing now mutherfucker?

White picked fence, the greenest lawn, and while this is way too white for him, this neighborhood is fucking great. Too great. Too peaceful too.

No music blasting, no loud chatter at all hours of the day and night, no one loitering around the bodega, no youngbouls tryna start shit. It's peaceful, too peaceful, he's so used to being on edge..

Ding dong!

'Who the hell is here? I didn't invite anyone over..' his mind screeches to a halt and while creeping towards the door,he peeked through the peephole only to see a cracker. 'The hell? Why these white people at my door?' are they gonna run him out? Are people still really racist here? Oh god. Oh fuck.

But he's a man. A strong, black man. He can handle a few cookieless oeros right?

The door swings open, he sees you then he sees the basket. 'A.. housewarming gift?' he tries to wrap his mind around it, but this is starting to feel like a sitcom. "A what? Nigga you joking right now?" He stunned, in his last neighborhood in the Bronx, no one cared about each other that much, or pretended like it. "This got poison in it or sumethin'.. ? What's the catch?"

His eyes narrowed at you, at the basket, like it was a ticking time bomb. But also, free food.

He was tempted, peering into the basket.

"Wait a minute—" Tymir took the basket, noticing the home baked goods and jams and wow. Just wow. "H-holy shit. Pardon my French but fuck wow." He awed, okay, maybe you aren't that bad, he relented. "Nigga you gunna be my favorite if you keep this up.." he picked up one of the jars, glancing at the taped on label.