I began messing with coke back in high school. Never anything major, just whenever it became available at a party or when someone would offer a line or two, “Sure let’s get tooted.”
Fast forward a few years after getting fired from a job and getting my last paycheck and I’m selling it. Now this wasn’t a spur of the moment type decision. My circle of friends since leaving high school had become mostly older cats that always had a lot of money, did what they wanted and never seemed to worry about shit. I knew what they were into but never really asked a lot of questions or asked for any myself. I was just there to hang out with my friend who basically had a house in the country that was open 24/7 for parties and weed.
This one friend in particular was a senior when I was a freshman in high school. We only met after I was out of high school and when we did finally meet it was like I knew the dude my whole life. My long lost brother that I always wanted. He was one of the most charismatic people that I’ve ever met and haven’t met anyone else like that to this day. He was hilarious, never met someone that he didn’t know and on top of it all I could hang out with him whenever, wherever and he was down for whatever. And since he was one of the popular guys in high school he introduced me to a plethora of new friends. It was fucking awesome.
In this new batch of friends there were always 2 or 3 more serious people. They didn’t come around quite so often but when they did everyone seemed to get serious. They were always nice but there are some people you meet and you just know, “Hey, don’t fuck around with these people. Be on your P’s and Q’s.”
So after literally hanging around for a few years and then losing the job I mentioned, I asked my best friend, let’s call him John Smith, if maybe he could hook me up with one of the heavies to buy some coke. I figured I knew a person or two that might want some and being young dumb and full of cum I could at least stave off looking for another job for a week or two.
“Sure.” says John. “How much you want to get?” I figured a half ounce ought to be the perfect amount. Cost me 400 bucks and I’d still have a hundred left to eat on. He calls his serious buddy up and boom, he’s on his way. We can call serious man, Mr. C. Well I had met Mr. C awhile back at John’s house and knew he was into the harder aspects of the drug life. I knew he had been to prison but we had never personally talked about any of it. Whenever he came over to John’s house there was absolutely no deals going on in the open. Even if it was just John and I there. They kept everything discreet and if that’s how they wanted to do it what did I care?
So now it’s my turn. Mr. C comes over and I asked him, “Did John tell you what I wanted?” “Yeah man, I got you. If you need any more John knows how to get ahold of me.”
I’ve got the hookup, Holla if you hear me.
So now I’ve got 14 grams of powder cocaine and no idea what to do with it.
“Wonder if Carlos still fucks with it?” I asked myself. Carlos was a old friend from high school and we had done powder together on occasions and both of our first wives were good friends and we are still friends to this day.
So I give Carlos a call and ask him if he’s interested. “Yeah man, come on over so I can get a look at it.” I went over and took some beers and he asked for a sample like any good person that fucks with coke would. “Yeah, it’s good. I’ll take a gram and I’ve got a guy a city over that’s always looking for it. Can you get more?” I told him that wouldn’t be a problem and to let me know.
Next day like clockwork.
“What’s up Tony? You still got some of that left?” Carlos asks. “I’ve got it all left, how much do you need?” He gives me the answer that I will hear from him every single day for weeks after that. “I need a quarter.” This one answer was actually a relief. I could get rid of half this fucking bag of coke and I could be done with it and go find a job somewhere. Because believe it or not having a half ounce of coke can tend to make you a bit nervous if you aren’t accustomed to having illegal narcotics on you at all times. So, I took the 7 grams on over to Carlos and he says dude from the other town will be here shortly to get it. “Fuck that! I’m not meeting any new people. You sell it to him and call me when you’re done. All I need is 300 bucks and if you can make some money so be it.” I said halfway running for the door. “He’s cool man! I don’t fuck with Narcs!” he said. I was out of there almost instantly.
Sure enough, around 20 minutes later Carlos called me and said he had my money. Went over there and Carlos was fucking hyped, said he made 20 bucks off of dude. At this time Carlos was living in a beat up trailer and money wasn’t easy to come by for him so I was glad that this ordeal was half way over, Carlos made a few bucks and I almost had my original 400 dollars back.
Next day like clockwork.
“What’s up Tony? You still got some of that left?” “Yeah, Carlos. I’ve got 6 grams left. I’m ready to get rid of it.” “What would you take for them.”he asks. “My guy wants whatever you got.” “Okay how about 225 for the 6 g’s?” Hoping I could just get rid of this shit and go back to normal life. “Done!” Carlos almost screamed, betraying his coolness. “Okay I’ll be there in a few. I don’t want to meet this guy, same deal as yesterday. Cool?” And so it went down just like the day before.
Next day like clockwork.
What’s up Tony? You got any of that left? This is where it happened. This is where I made the decision. The decision that would alter my life forever. I could have said, “No, I don’t have anymore . I can’t find any. I was abducted by fucking Australians.” something other than what I said. Not wanting to not be cool of course I said, “Yeah man, I got whatever you need.”
A quick call to John and a quick call to Mr. C and within an hour I’ve got another half ounce of powder cocaine and feeling like a fucking idiot. I go and make another 100 bucks off of Carlos’ dude and am told he will call back tomorrow.
AND SO IT BEGINS.
After a few weeks of doing this deal with Carlos I began to relax. I was making nearly a hundred bucks a day and the need for a job quickly faded out of the picture. I was a bona-fide cocaine dealer. I began to embrace getting up at 3 in the afternoon being able to go out and eat wherever I wanted. To buy a new shirt or jeans if I wanted. Who cares? This money is free. I can always make some more tomorrow.
Eventually all the people that hung out at John’s house that I was friends with started asking me if I knew where to get cocaine. And let me tell you something. If you sell cocaine to a person once, as far as they are concerned you’ll always have it again and you might as well be Muthafuckin Pablo Escobar to them. Cocaine just does that to people for some reason. So I wasn’t about to shy away from this new respect people had for me. I just let it happen. It all became more than just me. Now people were beginning to depend on me for product. In Carlos’ case he was looking for a little extra money and the others, well, they depended on me for a little fun on the weekends. People needed me and I took my responsibilities seriously. You need some now? I’m on my way, even though I learned that cocaine need not be delivered. Muthafuckers will walk to get to it. They will ride a shit stained dildo glued to a bicycle seat to get there. But I still delivered it because I was providing a full time, full service operation.
It just got better and better. After a few months I was established. Great money, more friends than I could count. Strip clubs, parties and vacations from my vacation life every single weekend. No responsibilities just fast money, nice cars and faster women. Almost paradise on earth. I didn’t use my supply hardly ever. Occasionally with some hot chick or special occasion would I dip into my own bags. I once made $9000.00 in one week. $9000 IN ONE FUCKING WEEK BY MAKING A FEW PHONE CALLS. I would generally make at least 1500 to 2000 a week depending how how many people I felt like fucking with. But if I wanted it the sky was the limit. But in a rural town in Tennessee you can’t serve everybody without running the risk of getting blazing fucking hot to the authorities. And I did this all very well. I was smart, shrewd and ruthless when it came to the game. If I fronted someone a gram or two I couldn’t see that as an investment to get rid of them, most people that owe you money will dissappear like a modern day episode of The Twilight Zone, I saw it as a personal affront to me and a challenge to my personal status as a fucking player. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to get my money back or make sure that you were in a world of hurt after you fucking tried to rob me of my money or my status. All over 50 lousy bucks.
I wouldn’t fuck with hard or even entertain crack heads. Way too much trouble. I stuck with powder and the occasional batch of X pills and weed. In my experience weed was too bulky and if someone spent a hundred bucks with you they wouldn’t be back for a good week or so. The money wasn’t fast enough. Same with the extacy. Too long a turnaround time. But cocaine? Fuck. I’ve had people spend a hundred bucks and be back in less than 2 hours with another hundred. You don’t have to sell cocaine with a sales pitch like weed or extacy. “Oh, this shit is Purple Fury or these are the Pink Lady Omegas.” Fuck that, just show them the corner end of a brick and people will eat that shit up. The cocaine business is bar none the easiest fucking thing I’ve ever been apart of and business was booming and I was killing it.
Until around a year later…
My good ole best friend John set me up at a hotel. He called me and told me that he heard that our county was serving warrants the next morning for sealed indictments and that he was going to go the next city over to get a hotel room just in case.
For some reason whenever you sell illegal narcotics there are always a few people that want to give you tips about what they heard about such and such cops and judges and whatnot. Most time it’s pure fantasy but when you are getting deeper into the game you start taking these “tips” seriously.
John told me what motel he was at and urged me to come on up. He said we could party a bit and lay low. Sure, why not. It’s probably nothing and it will be nice to get out of town for a day or two. Let everyone see how it is when good ole Tony isn’t in town to serve you. What an ego I had.
I got caught with 14.9 grams, in 2 different bags (Possession of Sch Il for Resale), with digital scales, baggies(Paraphernalia) and a 9mm(Possession of a firearm while in the commission of a felony). Got caught pulling into the Best Western that John told me to meet him at. Low and behold a narcotics officer just happened to be around the office waiting for me to ask me if I had anything illegal in my car.
“Of course not officer. Why would you ask?” I said calmly. I had taken a Valium an hour earlier and I was able to betray the shear panic that rose from the pit of my stomach.
“Do you mind if I search your car?”
“Yes actually I do officer. I wasn’t driving when you pulled up. I was parked and walking into the office and would like to know what it is that I’ve done wrong.”
“Why are you getting a room so late when you live one county over?” he asks.”
“The air went out in my house and I work in this city. Have I committed a crime by being out late?” I asked.
“Like I said sir, we’ve had reports of utter bullshit at this hotel and I am going to run my dog around your car and if he hits I will have my consent to search.” This fucking guy has a fucking dog in the backseat of his fucking Godamned fucking car.
He runs the dog around my car pointing and coaching this mutt. I am actually a dog lover but this night I was hoping that some maniac would suddenly appear with a flame thrower and torch this fucking bitch. But as far as I could see the dog didn’t do a fucking thing. He didn’t bark, he didn’t point, he didn’t do shit but run around my car with an intensity of a bear looking for a bee hive.
“My dog has indicated that there may be illegal narcotics in your vehicle Tony. I will now begin my search of your vehicle. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Yes, actually there is. I didn’t see your dog do shit.” I said.
“Are you trained in police dogs sir?” he asked.
“No, but I don’t need training to see that he’s didn’t ‘indicate’ as you said he did.” I quipped.
By this time what seems like half of the undercover force of the police department has shown up. They make me sit on the sidewalk and watch as my life is up in the air like the Hindenburg about to explode taking me with it.
After was seemed like an hour, literally was only about 3 minutes now that I look back on it, he pulls out one of the bags of cocaine.
“Well, what do we have here Tony?” No point in lieing about it now, “It’s fucking cocaine.”I said with an attitude that could barely mask the rolling ball of doom that was once labeled my guts. A few seconds later the same question is lobbed at me with a knowing, hateful glee which would be the only way I could describe this cop’s attitude now. “MORE COCAINE.” I said with disgust for the whole human race, the planet Earth and the entire universe which had suddenly turned it’s back on me in the last 20 minutes. The search continues revealing that I was indeed about to set up shop in the fucking hotel. I had a nice Tanita digital scales and hundreds of those little postage stamp baggies and a 9 mm pistol for just in case something stupid happens. The fury at what was happening to me began to wash over me like a summer rain on hot asphalt.
Oh, how I hated that Best Western and everything in existence that had ever been in that moment. I hated myself but that’s not something we as humans are to eager to jump right into at a moments notice. So projection of those feelings are a necessity for anyone seeing their life ripped up in front of their eyes.
I had all the dope in the center console of my car. I kept it there in case I was pulled over I could always make a left turn and maybe be shielded a bit if I had to throw it out the right window.
I wasn’t scared at first. I was more angry than anything. I figured I could scheme my way out of this or at least pay my way out of it. They took me to the precinct first. Since we weren’t going straight to jail I knew it was coming. I knew what they were going to do.
LET’S MAKE A DEAL.
So after letting me sit in a nice Interrogation room that was 20 degrees colder than the rest of the building for around 2 hours with some really big wall size mirrors so that I could look at myself and realize how fucked I was, they come in and offer me coffee and cigarettes. So professional, so nice these nice officers were. Nothing like you see on television.
“So Tony, you know why your here correct?” “Didn’t you just catch me with cocaine or am I free to go?” I said. Even the cops chuckled at that one. Great, my hard ass attitude is even funny to these fuck meats.
“No, do you know why we are at the precinct and not at the jail? Do you want to help yourself or not? You are facing quite a bit of time with this much coke and a firearm.”
“What am I looking at? How much time?” I asked. I don’t know what I was expecting asking this question seeing as I just got busted with 15 grams of powder cocaine in a state where anything over a half gram is a felony.
There were 2 cops in the room questioning me and they looked at each other as if they were trying to figure out who would be the lucky one to tell me this great fucking answer to the question I had just asked them.
“12-30.” The cop that busted me said with a twinkle in his eye like small town mall Santa Claus telling a kid that he was sure of his name being on the “Nice” list when in fact his little ass was so bad he should have been on a terrorist watch list.
“12-30 what? Months?” I asked really not wanting to hear his answer because I already knew the most hateful word in existence that had just been another every old day word to me an hour ago.
FUCKING A MAN.
So here I am sitting in one of the interrogation rooms of a local police department. I’ve just been asked if I was going to “help” myself by two police officers after they tell me I’m facing 12-30 years in the state penitentiary. What the fuck? How did this bulllshit happen? Three hours ago I was king of the fucking universe with money, a decent whip a few trashy girls and an unlimited charge it to the game card. I don’t think I can just charge this one up for a loss. I was a middle class white boy that didn’t have to be here. I didn’t have to be in this town. I didn’t have to have these friends. I didn’t have to FUCKING BE HERE.
During my years in high school there was a huge influx of Southern Rap in the United States. I banged this shit into my head starting around 1994 all the way up until 2002, which is where this story is currently at. Classics like UGK, “Riding Dirty” and Outkast, “ATLiens” were in my CD player at all times. The message was clear. “Ball hard, ride rough and don’t snitch.” I listened to these songs as gospel to the dope game. I shaped my attitude to reflect these influences and tried to live like these guys rapped about. Yeah, a white kid from the suburbs of Nashville that grew up in a middle class family chose to live like a thug.
The town I grew up in didn’t have shit to do and everyone that chose to have a “real life” generally moved away by going to college or finding a job somewhere, anywhere else other than here. But the people that stayed, well, they were the ones trying to hustle and play the dope game, always trying to get away with shit. I was content to work shitty jobs, get high, get drunk as Cooty Brown and fuck some trashy bitches.
But when I met John and saw the life that he lived, the ease in which money came his way, the general rejection of life’s little problems like money, employment or anything related to an honest day’s work, I was enamored with the whole idea of it. Money, weed, friends and bitches. In that order. I saw this fucking guy sell 20 pounds of commercial weed in a week. He didn’t sell it by the pound either. He sold it by the quarter and half ounces. He had that many people coming over to his house. I used to call it “Grand Central Station.” I mean it was the fucking perfect setup. He lived way out in the country with a long ass driveway with an unhindered view of the road for about a half a mile. You could see someone coming from almost a literal mile away. And the people came. You never knew who was going to show up. Old friends from high school, some hot women that John met last week that he knew from wherever he met all these people. And they were all cool. Black, white, Mexican, whatever. The thing about John was that he loved smoking people out. If you showed up to hang out for a while, as soon as you got there, John is rolling up a blunt or packing a bong or rolling a 4 paper joint. He was just like that. And if the blunt just went out and somebody else pulled up right then, time to smoke some more. I think he got a kick out of getting people high. Even if you went to buy a sack off of him you were getting high before you left. And everyone loved him for it. It may not have been a genuine love but it was love nonetheless.
Being around this environment for several years straight really made me think twice about working these fucking awful jobs and barely scraping by. It was just a matter of time before I moved into it. I mean sitting out at Grand Central Station every afternoon and every weekend I got to meet all the regulars and all the people that came by all the time to the point where I began to be friends with them and eventually begin selling to them as well. It wasn’t just customers that came out there. It was other dealers and heavies that would come out and hang out. Like I said, it was a sweet setup and a fucking chill place to hang out. John was always cooking something on the grill or mixing some kind of new cocktail, always something going on. John was definitely the weed guy for a lot of people. And after hanging out with the guy for 5 years straight, there wasn’t anything I didn’t trust this guy with. His wife was a cool chick and his kids called me uncle Tony. We were closer than friends. I thought of him as my brother.
Well, what is it going to be Tony? Are you going to help yourself or not? My mind is racing, like a rat in a burning sinking ship. “WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?” “Let me ask you guys one thing.” I asked these two pricks. “Who set me up?” “It was a routine patrol Tony . No one set you up.” “Bullshit” I said. Somebody fucking ratted me out.” And I honestly couldn’t think of who had done it. I had lied to everyone that called me that night looking for something. I told everyone I was in another city than the one that I actually was. If there was an actual bust in the morning I sure wasn’t going to volunteer my location to anyone. My mind just couldn’t comprehend who could have done it. And I didn’t suspect my fucking brother that was waiting for me at the hotel I just got busted at. That thought literally never went through my mind. That just wasn’t something that was even possible.
“What exactly is it you want from me? I don’t even live in this town. I’m from the next town over. How could I even help you there?”
We have a TBI agent in your town we can hook you up with and if you work with him and he tells us that you’ve done your part it will go a long way with the DA’s office whenever you go to court. The TBI is the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation and aren’t the guys you want to fuck around with.
So I’ve got 2 choices. Tell them to fuck off and take me to jail or tell them what they want to hear and maybe I can get out of jail on bond.
“Okay, I’ll do it.” I mumbled in disgust. “But you’ve got to give me a low enough bond amount that I can actually get out to help you. If I’m in jail I can’t do shit.”
“Sure Tony , tell you what we will do. We will actually drop the felony gun charge to a misdemeanor and we can get the bond down to $7,500. You will still have the felony drug charge but like I said if you cooperate it will go a long way in the DA’s eyes when you go to court. Can you make that bond amount?” he said like he was doing me the greatest fucking favor in the world.
“Yeah, I can make that.” I said knowing that I would only need a bit over 750 bucks to get out. Being out in the free world in my mind with a felony drug charge was better than sitting in jail where you can’t do a fucking thing to help yourself.
We will call you in the next 48 hours to set you up with the TBI agent. Will that be enough time for you to get out?
“Sure.” I said already plotting my next move. But when you’re in a checkmate situation and it’s your life that’s being toppled over on a chess board all you can think about it getting out of the situation immediately. And that’s what I did.
Booking-Adult Detention Center 8 am.
“Best Western of This Town how can I help you?”
“Can you please ring room 110?”
“Just a moment please. “
“John, it’s me. I got fucking busted last night.”
“Where the fuck are you dude? You said you were going to be here in like 10 minutes 9 hours ago.”
“I’M IN FUCKING JAIL DUDE. I need you to get me a bondsman NOW. I need 750 bucks. The cops seized my car and all my cash.”
“Are you fucking serious man?”
“They popped me with 14 grams and a pistol. I’m fucked up over here, are you still in town?”
“Yeah dude we’ve been here at the hotel all night. Where did they pop you at?”
“In the parking lot of the Best Western.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“DUDE, HAVE I EVER FUCKING CALLED YOU AT 8:00 IN THE MORNING BULLSHITTING ABOUT FUCKING JAIL?”
“I’ve got you man. I’m on my way to find a bondsman.”
“Fucking hurry up dude. This shit sucks.”
9:00 am, Adult Detention Center
“You made bond.”
I walked out of jail around 10 minutes later with the most conflicted feelings I’ve ever had. Sheer joy at being able to walk free again and pure terror at what had just happened and how fucked I was, mixed perfectly together like a dry martini with two green olives.
John and his wife were outside waiting for me. I saw them sitting there in the car looking at me like I was some poor Jew that just got released from Auschwitz. I stumbled to the car and got in the back. They didn’t even say anything. John just sat there and waited for me to say something.
Lets get the fuck out of here. Take me to a liquor store.
So away we went leaving the feelings of being totally fucked to a whole brand new feeling of now being totally fucked on down the road. I at least had been in enough misdemeanor scrapes with the law that I knew I had months maybe a year to get all this shit handled. HOPE is the most powerful drug that is the arsenal of human abilities. You can lean on hope whenever, why ever and for however long you need it. I honestly hoped if I talked to an attorney that we could work out some kind of deal. Money for freedom, a little time for a reduced charge for a plea or maybe get some legal loophole for the way everything went down which was bullshit. Any fucking thing other than doing 12-30 years in a state penitentiary. John couldn’t speak and neither could I on the way home. We went straight to the liquor store, John lent me some money, I had money at home but the cops seized around $900.00 and my fucking car. We rode home that early morning in stunned silence.
Johns house 9:00 am. After several huge gulps of Jim Beam.
Dude, what the fuck am I going to fucking do? Dude I’m fucked.
Bro, I’ve got an attorney you need to call, I’ve got his number.
What’s Mr. C going to say? Nobody is going to fuck with me, NOBODY. Shit, dude I just ruined my fucking life!
Chill out Bro. I’m still here, I ain’t going anywhere.
So in middle school around 6th Grade, I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. I got in a little trouble and such, nothing major, I think I was just your typical high strung adolescent boy. But this was the 90’s and the rage was if your child isn’t absolutely the perfect little fucking angel, we can fix his little ass with these high powered amphetamines . Muthafuckin RITALIN. That shit hit the schoolyard like crack hit the Bronx in the early 80’s. Every rambunctious middle schooler was fucking tweaked. And no one knew it. That wasn’t the shit you wanted your friends knowing. And I was silent along with a multitude of other little asswipes.
So to me, as a kid, to hear that something was wrong with my brain and these new little pills would “Fix” me was actually pretty damaging to my self-esteem and my psyche in a major way. “There’s something wrong with me, hide it away, don’t be who you want to be, that person is fucked up.” I mean how the fuck do you deal with that shit before you’ve barely got hair one on your love-grapes?
But for three years I took the Ritalin religiously because I thought that whatever was wrong with me might be cured. The person that I’m not supposed to be might go away. My parents wouldn’t give me stuff to hurt me. DRUGS ARE GOOD! Well, guess what? The person I wasn’t supposed to be never went away and now after 3 year of taking amphetamines I’ve trained my brain to accept stimulants like Jesus accepts a sinner. WITH OPEN FUCKING ARMS.
So now by the time I’m in high school I’ve built a wall around myself to keep others from finding the bad me by being the clown and the jokester. I’m not motivated to do my work or even be there. I had lots of friends, I still have a friend that I went to kindergarten with and we talk daily. He’s seen me go through it all and he never wavered in his friendship. I love the dude. He’s like the brother I never had.
But I began to shift my focus from school to getting fucked up with the “cool” crowd. The first time I ever got drunk I met the acceptance I was looking for in my own mind about the “bad” me. I didn’t feel like a pariah anymore when I drank. I actually didn’t care anymore what might be wrong with me; I just acted like a jackass and was cool with it.
CUE RICK JAMES “I’m in love with Mary Jane.
Then I met HER. Bless her heart. It was love at first sight. To get high after school and roll around blasting the newest Outkast or No Limit record on the backroads of Tennessee was absolutely beautiful. “School? Who gives a flying fuck about that shit?” Let’s roll some blunts and get as high as it humanly fucking possible. Weed at least gave me enough introspective to calm the fuck down a bit. But I was always doing my best to get the Ménage a trois of me alcohol and Mary Jane. There’s just something about those 2 substances that really caress my balls and turned me into a fucking dumbass. But within a year or two of meeting her we were married. Best relationship I’ve had so far. She lets me cheat on her and fuck her friends, hell, she even lets me light her on fire and suck her down a pipe. She’s always there when I return from nasty herpes sex with her pals and she always gives me the bootie. Pretty good gal if you ask me. She’s definitely a keeper.
Hi! I’m Cocaine and this is my twin sister Crack. We want to fuck your brains out and Bukkake your fucking life with shit!
Two of the craziest but most beautiful women on Earth want to fuck the shit out of you and then leave you for dead. What do? I fucking go lose my virginity is what! “I can handle these whores. They’ve met their match this fucking time.” Many a better men than me have said these words and never returned.
So a few years out of high school I met my new best “friend.” “John Smith.” But his nickname was “Big John.” We hit it off the first time we ever hung out. It was almost as if I had always known the guy. We literally hung out everyday for around the next 6 years after the day we met. I shit you not except for a few holidays are when some family duties called we were together. I made lots of friends with John. It was fucking cool having friends like these.
I guess I should expound on “Mr. C” Let’s call him Chris. Chris was where it all came from. All the powder, all the Exctacy, most of the weed, It all originated from Chris. He was THE hookup to have. The thing about Chris was that most people had no idea that it was a good idea to vie for his attention if you wanted illicit drugs. He didn’t flaunt his position with a bunch of bullshit bravado. He just did what he did and tried to stay under the radar. I guess the thing about Chris was that he didn’t sell to users, he only sold to dealers and there were probably around 10 others that got all their dope from him. I knew a few of them. They would meet him at John’s house and there were some that I never met. I would hear Chris say he had to go meet so and so and no one ever questioned him about it. Who would? Who gave a fuck who he was fucking with as long as he kept answering your phone calls?
I had moved past having John calling Chris for me. It was a natural progression. I mean John wasn’t making money off of me; he was just making the phone calls for me. And after around a month of John calling for me daily Chris slipped me his number and told me to just call him myself. I literally felt like I just got made into La Cosa Nostra. All was right in the world. I had a good userbase and I trusted them and all I had to do now was call Chris myself if I ever needed anything. And when I say anything I mean anything. This dude was the fucking Wal-Mart of dope. You need powder? How much? You need X-pills? How many? You want some weed? How many pounds? When do you need it? He was a full service type muthafucker. Just as long as you got everything done before 7pm. I don’t really know why that was the cutoff for fucking with him but who could blame him? Who wants to riding around with massive amounts of dope after dark?
Chris once invited me to go on a ride with him one day. “Sure man, where we going?” “Atlanta.”he said with his confident coolness. Atlanta? Oh fuck. “How long we going to be down there for?” because with Chris you never knew. You get in the car with this muthafucker to go to Nashville to pick up some golf clubs and you might end up in the Opryland hotel for a day or two after watching him drop 5 grand at the strip club. You just never knew with him. Like I said, he didn’t show off his wealth to everyone, but when he did decide to blow off some steam, it was like being in a fucking Scorsese flick. The amount of money I had seen this dude drop on strip clubs alone would’ve bought you a brand new nice Honda. “A couple of hours at the most, we will be back before the night is over. I promise.” He said seeing the trepidation on my face. “Okay man, let’s roll out.” I said wondering if this might be the last bad decision I ever made. Off we went doing 90mph all the way through Chattanooga and on down Interstate 75. Now I am a bit of a paranoid type person when it comes to new places and people. I have a hard time letting people into my circle and I don’t really like going to places that I don’t know or am familiar with. Not the greatest quality to have but it is just how I am. I am a control freak. There I said it. So when we hit Marietta Chris asked if I wanted to stop and get a bite to eat. “Sure, I could eat .”I said even though my guts were in knots wondering if we were going to Atlanta’s fucking hood and how they were going to respond to some white kid invading it like Napoleon Dynamite. “Applebee’s alright with you?” “Sure man.” I said knowing I could at least get a glass of whiskey to calm my nerves. A GLASS OF WHISKEY. So in we go. We saunter up to the bar and have a seat. Kind of rough place it looks like to me but who could tell, It’s a fucking Applebees. I order a literal triple Crown and Coke and look at my menu like it’s in Japanese. The drinks come and godamned is this a strong drink. I manage to get through half of it before some Mexican dude sits down next to Chris and starts talking to him while giving me the eye. “Who the fuck is this dude?” I’m thinking, wishing that I would have brought my pistol with me. I had a .380 that I usually carried because it was small enough to fit in my pocket but I also had a Smith and Wesson 10mm that I carried for bigger deals and when meeting new people associated with the game but it was mainly to show off that I had a 10mm to other gun aficionados. I was naked today and regretting it. “This is Tony .”Chris said introducing us. No name was given to me and I was just fine with that. The Mexican ordered a drink as well and Chris and he began chatting it up. I just sat there drinking my drink texting people that I would be back in town soon and staring at the piped in ESPN or whatever the hell that Applebee’s had decided for its patrons to watch that day. I tried to listen to what they were saying but Chris had turned to talk to the guy and I could see that they were trying to be bit private so what of it. I ordered another drink hoping that we could get this fucking trip over with as soon as possible and wondered how in the fuck Chris knew a random Mexican in Marietta Georgia. And just like that the Mexican was gone. Now Chris is telling me to order something to eat and telling me to get whatever I wanted, it was on him. “Ah, I had a big breakfast, I think I’ll just get a little tanked.” Go ahead”, he said ordering a fucking plate of ribs. I’m going to be here longer than I wanted to I knew. So after the food is out and ANOTHER round of drinks the fucking Mexican is back. WHAT THE FUCK? A few more hushed minutes of talking and Chris is ready to go. Finally, lets meet our doom. Chris headed back toward the Interstate and gets on 75 North. “Hey man where are we goin? Atlanta is the other way.” “We are done dude. Its already in the car.” Chris said grinning with a knowing smile. What had happened was the Mexican came and got Chis’ car and had taken it God knows where and packed it down with the product while we were sitting in Applebee’s. I had no clue. “How much dope is in the car?” I asked hoping it wasn’t much. “Just 2 keys and 10 pounds of weed. Oh, and 4 jars of X-pills.”
HOLY FUCK THIS IS THE LAST MISTAKE I’VE EVER MADE.
90mph towards Chattanooga and I’m asking Chris if maybe he should slow down a bit. “Brother we ain’t pulling over for the fucking Army.” By some miracle we never saw a cop or anything all the way back to our town. I’m pretty sure my balls were stuck to my leg for a week after that I was sweating so much. We went straight to John’s house and he pulls out a huge fucking ziplock bag of coke and tells me to smell it. It smelled like fucking nail polish and looked a rainbow trout when you held a chunk up to the light. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Chris weighs out an ounce and gives it to me just for riding with him. Holy Shit. He then throws out about an eight ball on the table and says,”Lets try it.” I had never seen Chris do any powder and after the day I just had I was ready to get blitzed. We cracked out the whole eight ball into 8 lines. Chris, John and I did one of these massive lines and I almost fucking threw up my testicles. I had never done any powder that made me feel like this. This shit was fucking pure as pure gets when it comes to cocaine done in the states. The other 5 lines sat there for the rest of the night. We literally were fucking geeked for an hour and when we finally decided our hearts weren’t going to explode we decided not to test fate any more than we already had. That was a hell of a day and we were fucking lucky. That’s half of the dope game, PURE FUCKING LUCK.
Chris was a convicted felon from a drug bust a few years ago. He had gone to prison and done his time. I didn’t know much about it and I didn’t ask. But a few months before I got busted Chris’ house was raided after some punk bitch dropped a dime on him. And I’m not talking about a traffic ticket type brush with the law. I’m talking about full on half the sheriff’s department in riot gear type shit. They busted in his house and found 9 ounces of powder a pound or two of weed a pistol and $11,000 in cash. Chris was fucked like a Fleshlight at an all-boys boarding school. And before you think to yourself, “Why did he have all this shit in his own house?” He didn’t. It was in a stash house out in the country that was in his girlfriend’s name. I said I didn’t know everyone Chris fucked with and I guess he fucked with the wrong one. That’s all it takes is one weak muthafucker to topple the whole house of cards. Now I was going to have to make the decision whether or not I was going to topple someone else’s house.
After the bust. 24 hours.
I am a fucking wreck. I’m wondering if Chris will answer my phone calls or if he will even fuck with me now that I am suspect. I’m wondering if the TBI agent that these fucking cops were going to set me up with already knew about me, my address, what I was doing. Was he watching me already? And on top of it I’ve got my regular customers calling me wanting fucking powder. I’VE GOT TO MAKE A DECISION. The police said they were going to call me within 48 hours. It’s just too much to think about. I get drunk for a day straight and stall my customers. I can’t stall them for too long before they get to looking elsewhere for a hookup. Got to think fast and make up my mind. I asked John to call Chris for me. I just couldn’t think about him not fucking with me or telling me to not call him anymore. I didn’t want to think about not having the hookup anymore.
“John, its me.”
“What’s up man? How you holding?”
“I’m a wreck man. Have you talked to Chris? Did you tell him what happened?”
“Yeah man. He said to call him.”
“Is he going to even fuck with me?”
“He wants to know if you need a front to get you back on your feet.”
GAME MUTHAFUCKIN ON.
I call Chris and get an order for an ounce. He’s completely sympathetic and we talk about how everything went down and even after all that neither one of us even considered John. I call my customers one by one and tell them what has transpired over the last 2 days and of course I get the usual dick sucking from them. Feigned heartbreak and the declarations of absolute support from them, but the question always follows after cock leaves their mouth. “You good?” “Yeah man. Come get it.” All the support in the world as long as I have what they need. COCAINE.
THE PHONE CALL
“Hey there Tony. This is officer dickface. How you doing today?”
“Fine. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve contacted our agent and he is ready to meet you today.”
And here we are. The decision. Am I a rat? Am I going to prison? Can I do the time? Can I rat out someone I know? Say, something you fool.
“No one will answer my calls Officer Dick Face.”
“You better get somebody on the line, we can still up the misdemeanor gun charge to a felony if you don’t.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do sir. Everyone knows I got busted and that I’m hot, they won’t touch me with a 10 foot pole.”
“You need to call us back within a week and update us on your status.”
“Sure, I’ll talk to you later.”
Attorneys Office, a few days later.
I tell this guy everything, I mean everything. I enjoy the attorney client privalege. It’s almost therapeutic. He asks me the question that will reverberate through my mind until this day.
“Did John set you up? “
HOLY SHIT. WHAT IF HE DID?
No way, I said with a hesitancy.
“Well, Tony , I think we’ve got a great chance at getting this thrown out based on the circumstances that you’ve explained to me about the case. My fee is $5,000 due today. Can you pay that?”
“Do you take cash?”
“I bet you do you low life fuck.” I thought to myself as I went to my car to get the money. This was going to hurt paying this much but the guy was a talker and had all kinds of strategies, so I thought. And he told me this would NEVER get out of General Sessions Court where misdemeanor violations are handled. He said it had absolutely NO chance of being bound over to Circuit Court where the felony violations are tried
20 Months Later, CIRCUIT COURT.
The last 2 setting were upstairs in circuit court. The offer from the DA had been 8 years. Both times. This was essentially my last court setting before I either took a plea or went to trial. Going to trial was not an option. When you are caught, you are caught. You take that shit in front of a jury of your peers, yeah right, and they are going to fucking burn you for wasting their fucking time.
So, my attorney finally comes back with the last offer. 8 years and 1 day. I was incredulous. He had been telling me that the first 2 offers were just formalities. That they would eventually come down on it.
THEY ARE GOING UP WITH THE TIME JOE!
“I know, I know” he said. “I think I may be able to get you in boot camp.”
“What the fuck is boot camp?”
“It’s a 120 day program. You could be out in 5 months. If you don’t want to do that I’m going to need another 5 grand today and we will take it to trial”
“What choice do I have then? Fuck it, bring on the boot camp.”
Ill be out in 5 month? Hell yeah!
Turned myself in 48 hours later after pleading guilty to Poss. of Sch. II for resale.
I didn’t get out for 15 months. I sat languishing in the county jail for 10 months. At this time to help alleviate overcrowding in the state prisons the state was paying County Jails to hold state sentenced prisoners a per diem. So, the county I was in really didn’t like sending it’s inmates to prison because that was a loss of money to them. I actually had to hire another attorney and go back in front of the same judge that sentenced me and have him order the jail to send me to prison.
When I first saw West Tennessee State Penitentiary the lyrics from that UGK song came rushing back through my head, “… ain’t nothing promised to a player but the Penitentiary.” What bullshit. Why did I fall for this? I sold my soul to the devil and the price was cheap. A little bit of money and drugs was all it took for me to end up here.
I was there at WTSP for a month and then sent to boot camp. It was literally the hardest thing, physically, psychologically and emotionally that I’ve ever been through. But I made it.
I WAS FREE!
For 14 months before I violated with a DUI. I had married a crazy fucking whore 20 years older than me the day I was sentenced 15 months ago. She had a little money, a big house and a BMW. She said she loved me and would take care of me while I was inside. Can you put money on my books every week? Yes, and I will come visit you every week. And she did. And she fucked my friends and then came up and confessed all this to me behind plexiglass. I wanted to bash her head in. Those 20 months on the street waiting to go to jail was rough. By the end of it I was doing 7 grams a day. I could hardly function the last few weeks. But now that I was locked up with no drugs, she became my drug and I hated her for it. I decided that when I got out she would pay.
The night I got the DUI we were driving in the country her and I and one of my friends. She got so fucking drunk she started screaming for me to pull over and let her out. I pulled over and let her out thinking she just needed to take a few steps and catch her breath and then she would get in. She didn’t. She kept walking back and forth across the road and eventually slapping me so hard my ears rang. My friend caught me from decking her, I was raising my arm to give it back to her. I’m not advocating violence against women but this chick was from Chicago she was tall and she could hurt you. I will defend myself no matter the sex of the person that is attacking me. My buddy caught me and said, “Bro, leave that crazy bitch out here. Let’s go dude.” So that’s what we did. We went back to the house and sat in the driveway for a few minutes before I decided we had to go back and get her. 20 minutes away was how far she was. We want back and there were Sheriff’s deputies everywhere. They stopped me and asked me for my drivers license by name. They were waiting for me. They asked me what I was doing out there and I told them that I left my wife out here after we had an argument and she wouldn’t get back in the vehicle. “Well, Tony she is in a helicopter on the way to Vanderbilt. She might not live.”
WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK?
“You’re coming with us.” Aggravated Domestic Assault. 30 thousand dollar bond.
Got out 3 days later and went home to find this bitch laid up on bed with a neckbrace on. I asked her what the fuck happened to her and she says, “You threw me out of the vehicle.” YOU FUCKING TOLD THE COPS THAT YOU STUPID MUFFIN HEADED WHORE? “I don’t remember what happened she pleaded.” I brought the friend that was with us that night over to the house and he explained everything that happens since she couldn’t or wouldn’t believe me.
About a month later I was locked back up in the county on a violation. No bond. When I went in front of the judge the first time he asked me if I had an attorney. “No your honor I don’t. But do I need one to plead guilt? I’m ready to get this show on the road.”
“You need to speak with the DA.”
The DA was cool. He knew I didn’t want to prolong it and he knew I was just ready to start serving time in prison rather than the county. He told me to wait a few minutes and he would bring me the paper work for me to sign. He came back and told me to look over it and to make sure he had gotten the jail credits right before I signed it. I got to looking at it and he had given me jail credit for the entire 20 months that I was out going to court when I first got busted. He essentially knocked it from an 8 to a 6 year sentence. The judge accepted my plea and gave me the jail credits. I never said a word, I never acted like I was happy. This was a clerical error that was in my favor, that or the DA was being generous. Either way I wasn’t saying shit about it.
So back to prison for 4 years this time. I flattened my sentence. No parole, no probation. I went home to my parents house the day I got out. I had divorced the whore from prison for 11 dollars in honeybuns. Best 11 dollars I ever spent.
Now I received an 8 year sentence. Chris received 141 months in the federal system. The feds picked up his case because of the amount of money that he got caught with and maybe the pistol charge. Either way he’s been locked up for 13 years now. He should be getting out this year or next. Phill who I didn’t mention, but he was one of the four of us. He got two 10 year sentences. He out now but still got a bit of parole to do. And of course John. John never got a weekend in jail. Nothing. John never wrote me, never answered my calls while I was in. I’m not mad. I am who I am today thanks probably to him. As far as I know my attorney never filed a motion of discovery on the case. If he did John’s name was never brought up. But if he was a C.I. the police made sure it stayed that way. I’ll never know 100% if John set me up. I’ll guess 99% will have to do.