The Hill, The Gun, and The Laced Blunt

Written by OG Strain for The Plug’s Pages Magazine

There are stories from Hamilton Hill… and then there are stories from Hamilton Hill.
If you’re from Schenectady, you know the difference immediately.

This one sits squarely in the “I can’t believe we survived that” category.

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Chasing Five-Dollar Bags on “The Hill”

Me and my boy Geoff were maybe sixteen — two suburban kids from North Glenville/Burnt Hills who had no business driving around Hamilton Hill at night chasing five-dollar bags of weed. We weren’t gangsters. We didn’t carry illegal pistols. We were hunters — rifles and shotguns, sure — but not street life. Not this.

But that night… that world pulled us right in.

We’re sitting at a light on Lincoln Street when two dudes start arguing outside a house. One flashes a tiny pistol. The other laughs:

“Pull that lil’ peashooter out — what you gonna do with that thing?”

Before we even react, the one with the gun walks straight to our van, opens the door, gets in, and says:

“Drive.”

So we did.

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“Yo, pull up — that’s my boy.”

We roll around the corner and another dude jumps in. No hesitation, no explanation.

Just:
“We need you to drive us to Albany.”

We didn’t know if they were asking or telling. The gun made that clear.

Now picture this:
Two white middle-class sixteen-year-olds with awkward teen mustaches suddenly chauffeuring two armed strangers through Hamilton Hill in a minivan. Fear hit us harder than anything we’d smoked in our lives.

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“Y’all cops?”

Dealers always ask customers if they’re cops when they meet someone new — that’s just how the street works. Tonight it hit different because the question came from someone holding a pistol pointed loosely in our direction.

They checked a little bag between the seats.

My buddy Geoff — comedian under pressure — blurts out:

“Oh that bag? That’s all our cop stuff.”

Horrible timing.
Legendary delivery.

The guy snatched the bag and tore through it. Empty. He relaxed — just slightly — but still didn’t fully believe us.

Then he said:

“We gonna find out if y’all cops.”

And without thinking, I stupidly nodded yes.

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The Test

He cracks open a blunt wrap and starts breaking down weed. I think, Cool. I’ll smoke a blunt to prove I’m not a cop.

Then he says the words that froze my spine:

“We ’bout to smoke a laced blunt. You ever smoke dust? You ever smoke that angel?”

Whatever he sprinkled in, it wasn’t weed.
Crack, angel dust, something chemical — the smell was unmistakable. They sparked it and passed it.

I hit it. Immediately felt that cold, cocaine-burning taste. My whole body went loose and wavy. Geoff stayed locked in survival mode. I drifted into some bizarre half-calm while the gun never left our general direction.

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Albany — The Aimless Mission

Hours later, yes — we actually were in Albany.
Not for a drop-off. Not for a plan.
Just circling blocks with no destination, drinking 40s, smoking laced blunts, and living inside a nightmare wearing a party mask.

That’s when they spotted the girl walking.

“Yo yo yo! That’s my girl! That’s my mama! Jump in!”

She gets in the van, looks around, sees me and Geoff in the front, and immediately freaks:

“You want me to do that with TWO WHITE KIDS sitting right there? Are you crazy?!”

One of the dudes snaps back:

“These are my n**s! They been rollin’ with us all night!”

Then he opens his palm — full of what looked like crack — and tells her she just lost out.

She went wide-eyed.
Then he literally kicked her out the van, foot to her backside, and slammed the door.

Gun comes back up.
“Drive.”

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“Watch these dudes. Don’t let ’em leave.”

Every time they ran into a corner store for more 40s and blunts, one stayed behind… with the gun.

That told us everything:
We weren’t their friends.
We weren’t their crew.
We were hostages that could drive.

And through all of this, the thing me and Geoff feared most wasn’t them —
It was getting pulled over.

We were terrified of being caught with felony narcotics, illegal guns, and two strangers telling the cops we were with them.

That fear alone kept us glued to our seats.

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The Drop-Off

Near dawn, they went into a store again. This was our moment. We could’ve driven off. We could’ve escaped.

But for some dumb, teenage, “don’t make it worse” instinct…
we waited.

They came out shocked.

“Yo… y’all cool. Most people woulda dipped.”

And just like that, it was over.

They had us drop them around the block, got out, and disappeared into the early morning air.

I exhaled for the first time all night.
Geoff sat silent — traumatized.

We looked back and saw all the tobacco they dumped out rolling those blunts, so we went straight to the 24-hour car wash and vacuumed that van like our lives depended on it.

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Another Night on The Hill

Two dumb kids from suburbia chasing $5 bags in the wrong place at the wrong time ended up on a full-blown hostage adventure — guns, laced blunts, 40s, chaos, and a girl literally kicked out the van.

Hamilton Hill gave us memories we never asked for… but it gave us stories.

Some people have ghost stories.
We’ve got The Laced Blunt Kidnapping of ’95.

And somehow — by God’s mercy —
we lived to tell it.