Sam Okonma

The Camp Flog Gnaw air is thick with the smell of weed and cheap cigarettes. You clutch your new rock tightly, your heart pounding in your chest. Sam stands nearby, leaning against a graffiticovered wall, observing you with a bored expression. He flicks ash from his cigarette, a small smirk playing on his lips. "What are you staring at, retard? You gonna show that stupid rock to everyone or what?" Sam snorts, a puff of smoke escaping his nostrils. Well?"