I hate techno music, but I sell drugs. Which means, if I want to make any money, I have to go where the markets are and that means techno. House, dance, trip-hop, jungle, whatever the fuck you want to call it, that chest rattling aural vomit pounding in every nightclub. I just thank god the raver era has passed, or if it hasn’t, I’m too old for the scene. But I don’t judge. People are entitled to like what they want. I just can’t stand techno.
Fortunately, I don’t have to spend much time in those places. Usually there’s a bartender, or a bouncer, a waitress, or even all three depending who can act as a one stop. Find that person, drop off a supply, collect the money later, but always know what you gave and what it’s worth. People get weird the minute a wad of twenties is sweating the palm of their hand. And if you think, ‘he’ll never notice,’ trust me, I will. Although, I have never killed anyone, and to please my wife I’ll add, directly. I have never directly killed anyone. Christ almighty, the woman starts watching Lifetime, and suddenly she thinks every OD is my fault.
I didn’t always have ambition. I used to be content paying the bills, selling dope in my neighborhood. I’d ride a bike house to house, stop off at a few local taps, and be home by eleven to smoke up in my basement, watching tapes with my friends. We had the rent paid, and enough cash, which is the trick. Enough. See, some people can go on for hours about the socio-economic reasons folks start dealing which may be true but only to a point. Because anyone who gets into it, just to earn a living, for whatever reason, would suggest that at some point there’s enough cash. Once you’ve made more money than you could spend it seems reasonable that you should retire. However, I know guys who make millions and keep coming back for more. Why? Something hooks ‘em. Somewhere along the trail something makes you stick to the life. Because it stops being about the money, that’s just there for expenses, the real ambition is for the lifestyle. I remember running balls out down an alley -- I’m twenty at the time -- knowing a cop is just feet behind me and getting this superman rush. I swear to god I flew over this chain link fence, and the cop was done. He knew better than to give himself a heart attack. And I could see how that’s addicting. Or knowing you could fuck anybody in a room just by asking. Hell, when I was seventeen my weed got me back stage at Nirvana. It’s the life that hooks people. That being said, the smart ones know to have a number.
After that cop I sort of started putting the big picture into play. I can’t say I didn’t always have it in mind, however, I could always sorta shuffle it to the back. Now most guys I know would say, ‘Hey, you didn’t get caught. So what’s the worry?’ Only I’ve got this mind set from my mother, ‘If you know what to worry about maybe you should.’ So I start thinking about the grand scheme of things. I know I can’t do this forever. What’s more is I don’t want to. I mean, seriously, who wants to work their whole life? Get in, make a pile, and get out. So I start figuring out averages in my head -- I was always good with numbers -- which gets me down to 30. Thirty million sounds like a reasonable amount.
Think about it. I plan on having kids, and I don't want them to have to worry about shit. Then there's the day to day bullshit to worry about: bills, insurance, the unexpected, etc. Life is expensive, and I've got no desire to spend the bulk of mine worry about dollars and cents. So thirty million sounds safe to me. (My buddy, Andy Mehlman, he says it's a number I picked cuz it's so big it'll take me a long time to reach it. Whatever. Andy Mehlman fucked Suzy Kurtz in high school. That's like puttin' ya dick in that used syringe box at the doctor's. However, in a way he had a point.)
Unfortunately, dealing to the locals is not going to do it. So I branch out which means going places I don’t much like, like nightclubs. It’s funny how a job can give a use to things you never had a use for. Naturally, my stock has to undergo some upgrades. Dealing weed isn’t gonna make me man of the year, if you catch my meaning, but that’s a fact of any business. You have to give the people what they want, not just what you prefer. I still dabbled in acid and pot but mainly for myself and friends. I put out feelers and started figuring what people wanted.
Now, just because people all want something doesn’t mean it’s the best business to go into. For example: meth is popular, but there are a lot of outlets. Which means you need to get in some quality product before customers pay attention. It’s like opening a burger joint right next to a McDonald’s. You need to stand out in a crowd. So I'm trying to figure out what'll do me the best when I meet Tommy Porter.
Tommy used to be a chemist chasing down his PhD till one afternoon he disappeared for eleven days. Nobody knew why, even he has a fuzzy recollection, but to me it was like a fucking miracle. If I had to explain it I would get more lost than my Uncle Carl on a road trip. The basic gist of it is this Tommy concocted a deliriant, which is legal, however, most guys don’t care for them recreationally. Deliriants make you more psychotic than trippy; the experience is rarely enjoyable. But, and this is the part where I get lost, Tommy figured a way to make a deliriant tolerable. Which is all I needed to hear.
See, Tommy Porter was dating my cousin’s best friend, Trisha, who bought acid from me, so I met Tommy around Christmas where he told me about his "fugue," as he put it. He says they’re used to treat asthma, ulcers, in surgery, sleep aids, and allergies. So it’s technically a legal form of acid he’s put together. Of course, I don’t buy this till he offers me some. Still, I’m not stupid. I give it to a couple of guys I know, who I treat like guinea pigs whenever I doubt the quality of something. They tell me it’s acid, mind blowing and this is where I get the name, ‘Mythical.’ We call it Mythical at first, which gets shortened to Myth, though Tommy prefers Delirious, but the debate could rage to no reason. Drugs never live with one name. Eventually it’ll change either way. So, for the time being, we called it Myth, and left it at that. (Now, I’m dating myself a bit here, because I still call it by my name. However, like I said, and to Tommy’s delight, Delirium won out in the end. Close enough to make him happy, but I still prefer my title.)
New drugs work their way slowly into the market, unless they act like something familiar. With a cousin like LSD-25, a lot of people thought they had a toe in the water, but there ain’t nothing like Myth. Our trips are the kind people write stories about, turn into legends, and rarely come home from. I heard about one guy, he sold his house to live in an apartment for a year and use the income from the sale to just do Myth all the time. He wrote some book about which is spinning around the internet that I thought was terrible, but people tell me you gotta be on Myth to get it. Whatever. The point is, we had the latest craze, and we're the only makers of it. That isn’t to say other guys didn’t try to figure it out, only the cats with the means to do it have much simpler ideas. They go the corporate route and buy you out. And if you want to keep dealing you can, just know your place. Tommy took his cut and moved out to Vashon Island with Trisha. I laundered mine, which left me a little short, so I still have to make trips out to make up the difference. 2.2 million and closing.
Of course, the government is starting to step in, and it’s only a matter of time before they figure out how to make this illegal. The problem isn’t making the law -- it’s testing for the stuff. Only people that do Myth on a regular basis show signs in their piss test. The casual user can, given a short amount of time, pass it off as Benadryl, or Gastritis, or asthma medicine, or whatever. The list goes on. Though talk still gets out. ‘Too good to be true,’ is what comes outta most people, but I don’t pay attention. I keep seeing these news stories the same as anybody about the “Toxic Shock” of too much Myth. (Right there, ‘too much.’ You do too much coffee it’s liable to give you a heart attack.) They say it isn’t what I’d claim. I mean, I’m no chemist, but I trust Tommy. He says it’s this and this, I haven’t seen anyone croak on it, who's to say otherwise? After all, the media is just an arm of the government anyway. They have to tow the status quo which means drugs are bad, period.
My wife keeps trying to feed me these articles. One of the side effects from Myth is supposed to be brain rot. And I don’t mean casual shit like memory loss or getting all clumsy and shit. I mean, chronic Myth users are being called self induced Alzheimer’s patients. But I don’t see it. If anything, the problems are probably the big rings. Like any company, drug dealers try to maximize profits which means fiddling with manufacturing costs. Instead of pure cocaine, it gets cut with whatever, everybody varies: chalk, sweetener, baking powder, baby powder, blah, blah, blah. The same is true with Myth. Somebody’s probably making it and not following the recipe exactly. I remember seeing the mix and thinking, ‘We could use gasoline instead of that, or grain alcohol instead of this rubbing shit.’ But I didn’t want to risk it then. Tommy said it all had to be precise, although, he’s a chemist, so he doesn’t think about manipulating the thing for cost, he just thinks about the product, which is his baby in a way. So when I hear about people bleeding to death from nose gushers, or self-mutilated suicides, I know what to think. Someone either fucked with the recipe or the assholes are doing too much. Like these fucked up kids they keep talking about. It’s the mother’s fault for doing Myth while pregnant. Jesus Christ.
Anyhow, I make a few trips during the week, drop off my bundles, and I close out around eighty thousand a month. Nothing super grand but more importantly, it’s steady. And my number is getting closer.
Fortunately, I don’t have to spend much time in those places. Usually there’s a bartender, or a bouncer, a waitress, or even all three depending who can act as a one stop. Find that person, drop off a supply, collect the money later, but always know what you gave and what it’s worth. People get weird the minute a wad of twenties is sweating the palm of their hand. And if you think, ‘he’ll never notice,’ trust me, I will. Although, I have never killed anyone, and to please my wife I’ll add, directly. I have never directly killed anyone. Christ almighty, the woman starts watching Lifetime, and suddenly she thinks every OD is my fault.
I didn’t always have ambition. I used to be content paying the bills, selling dope in my neighborhood. I’d ride a bike house to house, stop off at a few local taps, and be home by eleven to smoke up in my basement, watching tapes with my friends. We had the rent paid, and enough cash, which is the trick. Enough. See, some people can go on for hours about the socio-economic reasons folks start dealing which may be true but only to a point. Because anyone who gets into it, just to earn a living, for whatever reason, would suggest that at some point there’s enough cash. Once you’ve made more money than you could spend it seems reasonable that you should retire. However, I know guys who make millions and keep coming back for more. Why? Something hooks ‘em. Somewhere along the trail something makes you stick to the life. Because it stops being about the money, that’s just there for expenses, the real ambition is for the lifestyle. I remember running balls out down an alley -- I’m twenty at the time -- knowing a cop is just feet behind me and getting this superman rush. I swear to god I flew over this chain link fence, and the cop was done. He knew better than to give himself a heart attack. And I could see how that’s addicting. Or knowing you could fuck anybody in a room just by asking. Hell, when I was seventeen my weed got me back stage at Nirvana. It’s the life that hooks people. That being said, the smart ones know to have a number.
After that cop I sort of started putting the big picture into play. I can’t say I didn’t always have it in mind, however, I could always sorta shuffle it to the back. Now most guys I know would say, ‘Hey, you didn’t get caught. So what’s the worry?’ Only I’ve got this mind set from my mother, ‘If you know what to worry about maybe you should.’ So I start thinking about the grand scheme of things. I know I can’t do this forever. What’s more is I don’t want to. I mean, seriously, who wants to work their whole life? Get in, make a pile, and get out. So I start figuring out averages in my head -- I was always good with numbers -- which gets me down to 30. Thirty million sounds like a reasonable amount.
Think about it. I plan on having kids, and I don't want them to have to worry about shit. Then there's the day to day bullshit to worry about: bills, insurance, the unexpected, etc. Life is expensive, and I've got no desire to spend the bulk of mine worry about dollars and cents. So thirty million sounds safe to me. (My buddy, Andy Mehlman, he says it's a number I picked cuz it's so big it'll take me a long time to reach it. Whatever. Andy Mehlman fucked Suzy Kurtz in high school. That's like puttin' ya dick in that used syringe box at the doctor's. However, in a way he had a point.)
Unfortunately, dealing to the locals is not going to do it. So I branch out which means going places I don’t much like, like nightclubs. It’s funny how a job can give a use to things you never had a use for. Naturally, my stock has to undergo some upgrades. Dealing weed isn’t gonna make me man of the year, if you catch my meaning, but that’s a fact of any business. You have to give the people what they want, not just what you prefer. I still dabbled in acid and pot but mainly for myself and friends. I put out feelers and started figuring what people wanted.
Now, just because people all want something doesn’t mean it’s the best business to go into. For example: meth is popular, but there are a lot of outlets. Which means you need to get in some quality product before customers pay attention. It’s like opening a burger joint right next to a McDonald’s. You need to stand out in a crowd. So I'm trying to figure out what'll do me the best when I meet Tommy Porter.
Tommy used to be a chemist chasing down his PhD till one afternoon he disappeared for eleven days. Nobody knew why, even he has a fuzzy recollection, but to me it was like a fucking miracle. If I had to explain it I would get more lost than my Uncle Carl on a road trip. The basic gist of it is this Tommy concocted a deliriant, which is legal, however, most guys don’t care for them recreationally. Deliriants make you more psychotic than trippy; the experience is rarely enjoyable. But, and this is the part where I get lost, Tommy figured a way to make a deliriant tolerable. Which is all I needed to hear.
See, Tommy Porter was dating my cousin’s best friend, Trisha, who bought acid from me, so I met Tommy around Christmas where he told me about his "fugue," as he put it. He says they’re used to treat asthma, ulcers, in surgery, sleep aids, and allergies. So it’s technically a legal form of acid he’s put together. Of course, I don’t buy this till he offers me some. Still, I’m not stupid. I give it to a couple of guys I know, who I treat like guinea pigs whenever I doubt the quality of something. They tell me it’s acid, mind blowing and this is where I get the name, ‘Mythical.’ We call it Mythical at first, which gets shortened to Myth, though Tommy prefers Delirious, but the debate could rage to no reason. Drugs never live with one name. Eventually it’ll change either way. So, for the time being, we called it Myth, and left it at that. (Now, I’m dating myself a bit here, because I still call it by my name. However, like I said, and to Tommy’s delight, Delirium won out in the end. Close enough to make him happy, but I still prefer my title.)
New drugs work their way slowly into the market, unless they act like something familiar. With a cousin like LSD-25, a lot of people thought they had a toe in the water, but there ain’t nothing like Myth. Our trips are the kind people write stories about, turn into legends, and rarely come home from. I heard about one guy, he sold his house to live in an apartment for a year and use the income from the sale to just do Myth all the time. He wrote some book about which is spinning around the internet that I thought was terrible, but people tell me you gotta be on Myth to get it. Whatever. The point is, we had the latest craze, and we're the only makers of it. That isn’t to say other guys didn’t try to figure it out, only the cats with the means to do it have much simpler ideas. They go the corporate route and buy you out. And if you want to keep dealing you can, just know your place. Tommy took his cut and moved out to Vashon Island with Trisha. I laundered mine, which left me a little short, so I still have to make trips out to make up the difference. 2.2 million and closing.
Of course, the government is starting to step in, and it’s only a matter of time before they figure out how to make this illegal. The problem isn’t making the law -- it’s testing for the stuff. Only people that do Myth on a regular basis show signs in their piss test. The casual user can, given a short amount of time, pass it off as Benadryl, or Gastritis, or asthma medicine, or whatever. The list goes on. Though talk still gets out. ‘Too good to be true,’ is what comes outta most people, but I don’t pay attention. I keep seeing these news stories the same as anybody about the “Toxic Shock” of too much Myth. (Right there, ‘too much.’ You do too much coffee it’s liable to give you a heart attack.) They say it isn’t what I’d claim. I mean, I’m no chemist, but I trust Tommy. He says it’s this and this, I haven’t seen anyone croak on it, who's to say otherwise? After all, the media is just an arm of the government anyway. They have to tow the status quo which means drugs are bad, period.
My wife keeps trying to feed me these articles. One of the side effects from Myth is supposed to be brain rot. And I don’t mean casual shit like memory loss or getting all clumsy and shit. I mean, chronic Myth users are being called self induced Alzheimer’s patients. But I don’t see it. If anything, the problems are probably the big rings. Like any company, drug dealers try to maximize profits which means fiddling with manufacturing costs. Instead of pure cocaine, it gets cut with whatever, everybody varies: chalk, sweetener, baking powder, baby powder, blah, blah, blah. The same is true with Myth. Somebody’s probably making it and not following the recipe exactly. I remember seeing the mix and thinking, ‘We could use gasoline instead of that, or grain alcohol instead of this rubbing shit.’ But I didn’t want to risk it then. Tommy said it all had to be precise, although, he’s a chemist, so he doesn’t think about manipulating the thing for cost, he just thinks about the product, which is his baby in a way. So when I hear about people bleeding to death from nose gushers, or self-mutilated suicides, I know what to think. Someone either fucked with the recipe or the assholes are doing too much. Like these fucked up kids they keep talking about. It’s the mother’s fault for doing Myth while pregnant. Jesus Christ.
Anyhow, I make a few trips during the week, drop off my bundles, and I close out around eighty thousand a month. Nothing super grand but more importantly, it’s steady. And my number is getting closer.
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